


The Ghosts Within Our Hearts

by junebug113



Category: DreamSMP, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Amputation, Angry Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Childhood Trauma, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Exiled TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Gen, Ghost Wilbur Soot, Hurt TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kinda, Nightmares, Non-Graphic Violence, Panic Attacks, Parent Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Phil is an ok dad, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Protective Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Protective Toby Smith | Tubbo, Psychological Trauma, Realistic Minecraft, Sad Toby Smith | Tubbo, Sad TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Sbi is a family, Technoblade Hears Voices (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade is Bad at Feelings (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade is Learning Feelings, Technoblade-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Toby Smith | Tubbo Angst, TommyInnit Angst (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit Needs a Hug (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Trauma, Tubbo is having a very bad time, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, Worldbuilding, i don't know how to tag, kinda not really sorta, very very canon divergent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:47:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 22
Words: 46,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28446351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junebug113/pseuds/junebug113
Summary: Tommy has been in exile for five months; his beach party failed at the end of the first, and he hasn’t seen anyone other than his dear friend Dream since the end of the third. Haunted by memories and fleeing the remnants of Logsteadshire, he escapes into the untamed wilderness to the North like the feral animal he is.Or; Technoblade’s retirement is abruptly cut short.-----------------------------------------------A slow-burn and canon-divergent recovery arc with realism and fantasy elements. A tale where Tommy is very sad, Technoblade is trying his best, the family dynamics are funky-fresh, and nobody has a good time for long.
Relationships: Keep your ships out please, No Romantic Relationship(s), Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Tubbo & Tommyinnit, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit, You creeps
Comments: 970
Kudos: 2696
Collections: BEST MCYT FICS IN EXISTENCE, The Reasons For My Insomnia





	1. Becoming a Remora, or Some Shit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy wanders through the snow, and tries to stay positive. He's such a big man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POSSIBLE TW!!//// frostbite, PTSD a little bit, illness, and vomiting. 
> 
> Hello all! This is my first headcanon/fanfic, so I’m hoping to do my ideas justice. I’ve been inspired by a number of lovely fanfics on here, and would like to get my own ideas out there! I’ll reference and recommend them as we go along.
> 
> This story is pretty canon divergent. I’ll be following the streams as a guidline, but there are a few differences I’ll make, especially in regards to the following:  
> A) Tommy has been alone for a lot longer than in the streams. Other than that, his exile arc follows a very similar, if not more extensive, progression.  
> C) Dream doesn’t know where to look for Tommy, as in this version Tommy leaves no traces.  
> D) SBI is kind of a family, but it’s more a dynamic than an actual legal/adoption arrangement. Wilbur is Phil’s only legitimate son.
> 
> There will be other changes, but these are the preliminary ones I want to set up!
> 
> I'll write up a quick summary at the end for those who feel uncomfortable reading!

Snow danced gently from the darkening sky, pushed into the depths of a boy’s charred, matted curls to rest amongst ash and blood. The dense white drifts were up past his knees, stretching on endlessly. Cold seeped through the bandages wrapped sloppily around his blistered fingers, burrowing into his bones and frosting over his joints.

Tommy felt like shit. He didn’t know how long he’d been walking anymore, only that his right foot felt like a useless bitch of a meat stump. It dragged heavily through the snow as he stumbled further and further away from the ruins of Logsteadshire, a feeling of numb emptiness beginning about halfway down his shin and swallowing up his whole foot. He had lost his shoe a long time ago, and while it hadn’t been trouble on the soft beaches of his exile, the deep freeze of the arctic had been nearly unbearable. At first, the foot had cramped painfully against the ice and snow, and it had felt like he was treading on glass with each lurching step he took. Now, he couldn’t feel a thing.

Tommy reasoned to himself that the lack of pain meant he was moving faster. His mouth moved around the argument, words coming out as a whispered, unintelligible gurgle. He had taken up the habit of making noise to fill the silence in the third month of his exile, and though the sounds he made were meaningless, they kept certain thoughts and memories at bay. It was comforting. External noise quieted the constant thrum of his consciousness. The further he got from Logsted, the dimmer those thoughts became; all he could hear now was the harsh crunch of snow underfoot and the dull hum of his mind. One little voice, which sounded ~~like a lost friend~~ familiar and made his freezing chest ache, murmured _you deserve to be away from Dream. Dream was never your friend, he hurt you. You can live peacefully now! Only a little bit further, there’s a light just ahead!_

The battered blonde blocked out everything but the last part. There was a light; a gorgeous golden glow turning the ridge of snow ahead to amber and illuminating the tattered, sun-bleached clothes that rippled against his frame. Tommy didn’t smile, but the ghost of excitement flickered in his dull grey eyes, his cheeks tightened slightly, and his pace quickened until he was stumbling over his lifeless foot with his bandaged hands swinging wildly. There was a cottage. Windows were set comfortably into plain white walls, nestled between sturdy spruce supports and a worn stone foundation. Snow gathered on the a-frame roof, dropping onto a small glass apiary and the top of an empty stable. Tommy had never been so happy to see something so humble in his whole life. He knew who it belonged to, of course. A certain burly, pointy-eared pig man with an obnoxious cape who had come to mock him during his first week in Logsted and who hadn’t returned since. Tommy forcibly shoved this knowledge into a corner of his mind, like everything else unpleasant that had wormed its way into his head during his delirious trek through the arctic; he hadn’t made it through the biting cold by thinking. Thoughts were for bitches, and Tommy was fairly certain that if he had allowed anything other than _keep on treckin’_ to move through his head during the journey, he would have laid down in the snow and never gotten up. 

Hauling himself up the stairs, Tommy fumbled at the brass handle for a moment before wrenching open the heavy, formidable door. When he finally got the door open, a blast of hot air hit him so hard it hurt. Hesitating in the opening, the battered teen swept his dull gaze across the room. He was alone, with the exception of a haggard looking Endermen, who was (literally) glued to a wooden rocking chair next to a roaring fireplace. Tommy’s eyes skipped over the hearth like a scratched record; the thought of fire made him feel nauseous and dizzy, stirring up carefully buried memories of ruin and fighting and _oh my god everything was shaking and exploding and burning and Tubbo was being shot by fireworks ~~and~~ _ ~~_he was exploding too and_ _-_ ~~

Tommy locked onto the chests. They were stacked against the wall adjacent to the hearth, beckoning him with the riches that ~~his brother figure~~ the inhabitant obviously possessed. Leaving a trail of slush and snow in his wake, Tommy stumbled towards the containers. His hands shook violently as he rooted through them, grey eyes wide with anxious excitement as he sorted through the treasure; glittering emeralds, blocks of solid gold bigger than his head, and potions that pulsed with the fiery magic of blaze powder. The urge to stuff his pockets full of riches and stow it away somewhere almost overwhelmed him. It was a desire that he hadn’t been able to indulge in recently. 

Instead of squirreling away all of the obviously noticeable valuables, Tommy grabbed onto a rich magenta potion, uncorked it with shivering hands, and downed the whole thing in one gulp. Allowing the bottle to slip through his fingers, the teen revelled in the feeling of keen heat spreading throughout his body, defrosting his bones and invigorating him. His skin, which had begun to ache dreadfully as it adjusted to the sweltering cabin, began to ease up as the gentle thrum of power eased through his limbs. Strength potions were pretty cool. Humming a comforting, joyous tune with excitement, he took the essentials: two loaves of bread, basic tools, a ratty old blanket and a roll of wool bandages. Things that Tommy believed their owner wouldn’t miss. Unable to help himself, he added a sack of tantalizing golden apples to his humble hoard before slamming the chests shut. Perhaps they wouldn’t be missed, either.

Tommy didn’t take the time to gaze around the space, as he didn’t want to become too attached to it. His plan, which he had recited to himself via indiscernible hums and mucous-bubbled mutterings while rooting through the chests, was to become a rat. A raccoon, if you will, squirreled away underneath the floorboards where he wouldn’t be found. Just until he was better. When he had some more meat on his big, manly arms and could actually feel his leg. He had refused to look at the foot so far, and didn’t plan to in the near future.

“I’m like an ah-mo-ra… no, remora. Yeah. Very manly.” Tommy garbled, the words scraping through his sore, ill-used throat. It barely sounded like english. He reckoned he was coming down with the flu, judging by how his lungs felt like cold, thick leather that wouldn’t stretch properly. That particular feeling had been alleviated by the strength potion somewhat. Clearing his throat with a wet cough, Tommy dragged himself towards the ladder near the door, keeping his eyes carefully away from the Enderman-guarded hearth and trying to ignore the way his right foot still hadn’t warmed up yet. Descending carefully, Tommy kept the numb appendage out of sight; he had a sinking feeling that if he so much as glanced at it, he would throw up. 

Having successfully made it down the ladder without looking at - or using - his right leg, Tommy set about digging below the zombie-villager-filled storage room; an entirely grey-brick basement that smells vaguely of dried herbs. When the floor beneath him gave way to nothing, Tommy let out a manly shriek, tumbling unceremoniously into some sort of hidden stone basement beneath Technoblade’s house. A lone cow raised its head from the floor, staring at him with solemn brown eyes. The roughly hewn room was home to two other mobs, each with jack-o-lanterns on their heads. They peered at him through small glass windows set into the wall, making grunting gurgles that sounded oddly like the sounds Tommy had begun making. He decided he’d try to make them less. 

Gasping for breath, the teen checked himself for new injuries, ignoring those which had littered his skin when he first arrived. As his dull gaze swept over his left leg in search of injury, Tommy felt himself seize up and his stomach roll. He had just _glimpsed_ his right leg in his peripheral vision, and god did he want to throw up, even if that was pussy shit to do. Rolling his left ankle while staring pointedly at the lone heffer, Tommy tried to block out the pressure building up behind his eyes, because ~~his foot was black and bloated and it looked rotten and-~~ men don’t cry from a little fall. His stomach was turning around the strength potion, which was wearing off rapidly, and Tommy desperately wished he had grabbed another. 

Hastily replacing the stone overhead, the battered boy crawled his way towards the nearest roughly-hewn corner and began to dig again, forcing his stomach contents to remain where they belonged. This time, he didn’t fall through into any hidden dungeons. Mumbling incoherently about becoming a ferret, Tommy set his “plan” into motion, fashioning himself a horrendous hole in a pain-infused haze. If he had the strength to raise both of his arms straight out, his bandaged fingertips would’ve touched opposing walls. A small ledge hewn from the stone, decorated lavishly with a porridge-coloured wool blanket, was his bed. The air was damp and cold, and each raggedy breath that scraped its way past Tommy’s lips echoed against the stone and made his empty stomach lurch horribly. A few divots carved into the vertical wall formed a haggard ladder, already slick from the condensing moisture within the claustrophobic space.

Dumping the contents of his pockets onto the tiny alcove he had created, Tommy set about relieving the rolling of his stomach by retching into a corner. Nothing but rancid bile came up, but maybe that was a good thing. Tomorrow, he’d make his way up the shitty ladderer and get warm again. He’d clean up the mess in the corner. He’d get a new potion. For now, all he could think about was not dry heaving as he carefully tugged his right foot up underneath the blanket, refusing to look at it while he did so. Maybe if he pretended, it would get warm again. The gnawing hunger that had ravaged his body for so long was gone, dampened by the cold and the nausea swirling in his gut. It was vaguely comforting, to Tommy’s potion-addled brain. Shivering horribly, he slipped into a feverish doze, blocking out his pain with disconcerting precision.

The pouch of precious golden apples lay in a crack of light, which fell from the poorly-replaced stone overhead. He hadn’t touched a single one.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tommyinnit can't feel his foot, but maybe that's for the best. After discovering Technoblade's empty cabin, Tommy decides to squirrel away underneath his floor. He doesn't feel so good.


	2. Necromancy is Nothing to a God

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Technoblade killed some necromancers and stole their shit. Technopog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No trigger warnings for this chapter. Pog.  
> As usual, there will be another summary at the end for those who skimmed through, or were confused!

Nettles clutched obnoxiously at the edges of Technoblade’s flowy trousers, grabbing at the fur lining the tops of his boots as he trudged through the dense forest. In one thickly-gloved hand was a massive cloth satchel, slung over one shoulder and resting against the rich silk of his cropped blue cloak. In the other fist was Carl’s reigns. The dense, dark boughs of the dark oak trees hung far too low and far too thick for the piglin hybrid to ride his loyal steed, who’s chestnut coat was hidden behind dazzling diamond armour. 

“Look, Chat, I don’t know what you’re on about.” Techno hummed, his monotone drawl heavy with exhaustion. The voices in his head had begun whispering warnings a day after he left his cozy arctic home; thieves and vagabonds were hiding under his floors like pests.  _ Rats, Squirrelinnit, Technokill, Technothief, Rat for the Rat God. _ Techno had scoffed, unable to decipher their jabbering. Blaming the activity of ‘Chat’ on his own paranoia, he had continued on his journey. 

Now, three days after they began, the thousands of voices clambering around his head were shrieking with worry.  _ Technohelp, Tommy is hurt, Kill the thief, Technodoctor, Technohurry!  _

“Tommy is in exile, very far from my house. I can’t help him.” The boar man huffed, his bruised nose flaring and split lip curling. He couldn’t wrap his weary mind around their cries. With Tommy all the way in Logsteadshire, there was nothing he could do to help anyway. The outpost-style fort that  ~~his younger brother~~ the teen currently resided in was easily a day’s ride from his cabin, and even longer on foot.

“I’m already tired from finding all this cool dark magic for you, chat. Take it down a notch.” The voices shifted their tone at that, clambering to support Technoblade with hearty congratulations and numerous pogchamps.

The softening of Chat’s tone was a relief to Technoblade’s exhausted mind. He was battered, bandaged, and bruised; fighting a variety of axe-wielding warlocks wasn’t a walk in the park, and the pigman was drained. Techno couldn’t fathom why Dream had given him a map, drawn poorly but legibly, which had led him on a wild goose chase for immortality. Well, not immortality exactly - necromancy was a better term for it. Deep within the enchanted woodlands lay the only remaining refuge of grey-skinned ghouls, warped by the magic they performed, and unimaginably ancient. At some point in their miserable existence they’d decided to play god, toying with magic they didn’t understand until they figured out how to craft the Totems of Undying. Making them was dark business, written in tongues that had been lost to time and involving a plethora of indecent rituals. A pair of the emerald-eyed dolls were tucked deep within his bag, wrapped in thin rabbit furs for protection. Techno would be burying them within his enderchest the moment he got home.

He hoped he’d never have to use them. Dark magic felt awful.

Leading Carl through another stretch of dense underbrush, Technoblade nearly let out a whoop of delight. Snow was beginning to clot on the nettles and bushes snagging his clothes, frosting the caps of mushrooms and powdering the dimly lit forest floor. The ground was growing firm underfoot, thick moss giving way to permafrost-hardened earth.

“We made it, Chat!” Techno barked, his bland drawl lifting upwards with delight. Thank god, they made it out of there. The pigman had grown accustomed to the sweeping tundra and grandiose cliffs of his arctic retirement home, and having to haul both his bulky horse and a large bag of loot through kilometers of eerie woodland was not his idea of fun. Chat celebrated alongside him, a pleasant buzz in his head rather than the splitting screeches of before.

Technoblade wouldn’t admit it out loud, but he was worried. The voices in his head were rarely wrong, and the idea of Tommy laying broken in the wilderness surrounding Logsteadshire was tearing apart his already weary mind. He’d go and check Logsteadshire right after storing this god-forsaken loot. Despite how much he despised the kid, perhaps he’d visit. It had been nearly five months since they last spoke - not that Technoblade had been counting - and it wouldn’t hurt to go and prod at him a bit. Besides, Phil would be devastated if anything happened to the brat. 

Bashing his way through the last of the thinning woodland, Techno revelled in the gust of frigid wind tugging at his rosy braid. The edge of the tundra welcomed him home, sunlight reflecting off the glittering expanse of white to poke the piglin hybrid in the eyes. Humming with content, he swung the satchel off of his shoulders and hoisted it onto Carl’s haunches. The stallion flicked his ears curiously, lowering his head to nibble at the snow while Techno secured the load to the back of his saddle. Carl was a good horse. Drawing the reins back over Carl’s neck, Technoblade hauled himself into the leather seat and released a breathy sigh.

“This is the life, chat.” he hummed, ignoring the underlying buzz of worry from some of the voices in favour of agreement from others. He was out of that damn woods, and he wasn’t going to let Tommyinnit ruin his repose that easily. Tapping Carl’s sides with his booted heels, the pair set off into the tundra at a steady trot. 

Retirement suited Technoblade well. He enjoyed the peace throughout the serene ride to his cabin. He revelled the quiet as he unsaddled Carl, removing the heavy satchel from his haunches and topping up his hay. He languished in the tranquil vibe as he shouldered the pack, marching up the stairs and humming a gentle tune. Permanent retirement melted into a respite when he stared at the ice outside of his door, into which the outline of a bare foot was pressed. He stared as the voices of Chat clambered skywards into a caterwaul of fear and worry and anger, wondering who on earth had stood in the doorway without a shoe on, wondering who the hell had entered his home.

Guess there isn’t any rest for a god.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Returning from a Woodland Mansion with lots of goodies, Techno tries to get chat to shut up. A day after he left the cabin, the voices warned of an intruder. It's been three days since then, and they're even louder than before. Battered and weary, Techno returns home to find his peaceful retirement shattered by a bare footprint in the ice near his doorway.
> 
> \-------------------------
> 
> I've got one hell of a chapter coming up next, lads and lassies. It'll be mixed POV, so uh, pog? School is gonna be back in session, but I have an exam break coming up even though all exams are cancelled. Gonna do as much work in advance this weekend, so I can keep getting stuff out. Thanks so much for the support on the last chapter; I was honestly so shocked!!
> 
> You guys rock. Stay cool :]


	3. Raccoons Don't Live in Burrows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s either a rotting corpse in his basement, or a very fucked-up feral child. Techno isn’t sure which.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MASSIVE TW!!//// Severe illness, vomit, dissociation, and some wounds/gore. General grossness.
> 
> The TW's don't apply to most of Techno's POV, which is indicated by a little symbol like this: -*-. The TW's pick up again with the line "The smell hit him first."
> 
> First mixed POV chapter, just so that I can make it longer. Better to have one big chapter than two small ones, right?
> 
> As usual, there will be a recap at the bottom. I’ll make it more detailed for this chapter, seeing as the tw’s are more extensive/serious.

The first time Tommy woke up, he felt fine. Sure, he had to force open his crusted eyelids to the sight of near blackness. His ragged, hitching breaths echoed loudly against the water-slicked stone walls, illuminated only by a strip of light from the ill-made cave entrance. The dull, moth-eaten blanket that lay across his trembling body felt heavy and vaguely damp, pressing in on him and making his grimy skin crawl. But despite the aches and chills, the heady cotton that clouded his mind, and the empty feeling extending down half of his right leg, Tommy felt fine. Great, even. So he was very surprised when he propped himself up on trembling arms, then promptly threw himself over the side of the ledge-bed and vomited. All that came up was strength potion and bile, but Tommy wasn’t surprised; he had stopped counting the days between meals a long time ago. Groaning and murmuring faintly to himself, Tommy allowed his body to slump back against the blankets and stone. His head lolled listlessly against the slick rock, squeezing his eyes shut and stifling a wince. Perhaps he was just exhausted, or the strength potion had taken too much out of him. ~~Tubbo would’ve known what it was, bringing honey and gifts and making him laugh and-~~ He had been feeling rather peaky lately, so it could easily be the flu. Focusing on steadying his shallow breaths and quelling the rolling of his gut, he tried to gain the strength to rise. Breath in, and out. In, and out. In, and-

The next time Tommy woke up, he could barely open his eyes. He wasn’t quite sure when he had fallen asleep, or how much time had passed. All his heavy mind could focus on was the sickly torchlight, worming its way into his burrow uninvited. It was awfully bright. His mouth tasted foul. He wondered vaguely when Wilbur would come to check in on him, before reminding himself that his older-brother figure had died nearly a year ago. Was it a year ago? Tommy couldn’t be sure. He felt stupid; more so than usual. ~~More so than Dream often liked to remind him, as he tore into the dirt with his dagger-sharp shovel and Tommy pleaded and pleaded for the explosions to stop, for them to use any other way, for him to please please listen-~~ Tommy also felt very dizzy; his head felt as heavy as the gold blocks in Technoblade’s chests, and his stomach was filled with cement. He almost wanted to throw up again, to rid himself of that awful heaviness taking up space inside his gut. However, the limp blanket felt so cosy now; rough against his prickling skin, but so warm. Tommy felt cold. He’d been cold for so, so long, and at this rate he didn’t know if he’d warm up again.

The next dozen times he stirred was in a feverish delirium. Tommy babbled senselessly at the walls, inarticulate hums gurgling forth at barely a whisper. He could’ve sworn there were people shifting around him, melting and shifting with the shadows from the torchlight flickering into the hole. Familiar people. Tommy wanted to talk to them so badly, to talk to anybody at all, so he forced out words that came up as gibberish. The inarticulate sounds shredded his mucus-coated throat until he could taste blood. 

Tommy jolted awake once more, his eyes sealed shut and head throbbing. There was a thump overhead. Tommy heard it, and he knew for certain that this time it wasn’t in his head. His mind was working in overdrive, attempting to push away the feverish fog that had settled so heavily around him. A voice drifted into the deafening silence, shattering the murky silence that had settled over the burrow. Tommy was definitely awake now. The teen tried to shift, straining to watch the entrance, but found that his body was unresponsive. He felt so, so cold. So heavy. Large boots  ~~Dream wears boots~~ trode over wood, then creaked on a ladder, then slapped on bricks. A beat of silence, then the sound of a pickaxe  ~~pickaxes breaking his things breaking his skin~~ striking stone rang through the air. It was so loud, spots bloomed in Tommy’s blurry vision. Panic began to bubble up, tightening his stiff lungs until he could barely breathe. The sound of mining stopped, stone ground against stone, and wooden heels struck again overhead. He could  _ hear _ the muttering so clearly now, it made his head buzz. 

Tommy knew what muttering like  _ that _ meant. It meant he was out of time. His bleary eyes, lidded and glazed, unfocused until he was staring at nothing. The movement above him stopped. Tommy didn’t realize. He didn’t register the racing footsteps, the shifting of the cover on his hole, the blinding light entering his den. Tommy’s eyes rolled back into his head as a dark figure blocked out the light overhead.

-*-

Technoblade winced at the screech of his brass handle, the frosted hinges screaming his arrival as he swung open the sturdy mahogany door. If anybody was inside, they heard his entrance. He doubted that the thief had remained, but the symphony of worried screams thundering through his head told him otherwise. 

“Quiet, chat.” Technoblade gruffed, swinging his heavy, exhausted gaze across the cluttered kitchen, searching for anything out of place. The flowers on the windowsill were bathed in late afternoon sunlight, which filtered through their healthy petals to pool on the rich spruce floor. Pots and pans hung from wrought-iron hooks on the walls, waiting patiently above butcher-block countertops. None of the simple wooden cabinets seemed to have been disturbed, and the glittering trinkets sitting on open shelves remained undisturbed and horribly dusty. The only movement in the house came when Edward, Techno’s Enderman ‘roommate,’ reached one slender arm towards a pile of wood and tossed a log into the roaring fire. This drew his attention to the chests adjacent to the hearth. Ignoring the rest of his quarters, Technoblade weighed his sword in one hand, pacing cautiously towards his storage space.

The containers had been rifled through, that was for certain. Grime and soot had been smeared over an empty glass bottle, a few remaining droplets of strength potion settled in a residue at it’s base. A few other treasures were similarly tarnished, though Technoblade couldn’t fathom why. Chat hissed steadily in the depths of his consciousness, having quieted somewhat to allow Techno to focus.  _ Dirty rats, Rat for the Rat God, Tommy is hurt, Kill the Thief. _ Pushing them further away as his frustration grew, the piglin hybrid searched for missing loot of any worth. Items were strewn about, thrown onto the kitchen floor in his haste to find something,  _ anything _ of actual value that was gone. A sack of golden apples was missing, and that was it. Maybe some iron tools had been swiped. Stacks of diamonds, emeralds, and gold - though smudged with mystery filth - remained almost exactly where he had left them.

Closing the chest with a bitter huff, Technoblade marched towards the ladder, no longer trying to mask his steps. Assured that their beloved Techno’s treasures hadn’t been snatched, Chat was back to worrying excessively over  ~~his younger brother~~ Tommy, and remaining silent was no longer his top priority. Tromping down the sturdy rungs, the pigman dropped the last metre, surprised when the bricks at the bottom shifted faintly under his boots. That was abnormal. His hesitance lasted only a moment before he sprung into action, bending to chip away at the bricks. The netherite pick made quick work of the obstacle, and Techno sailed gracefully into his secret basement with a sharp thump.

“What kind of fucking thief mines below somebodies cellar?” Techno muttered, and chat clambered to answer with their usual nonsense. Bessie the Second, his last dairy heffer, lifted her head curiously as he entered. She lowed softly, turning away from him to continue nibbling curiously at a crack in the stone.

“What’ve you found, Bess?” the piglin murmured, staring at the crevice in the rock. There were multiple crevices, actually; a full circle of solid crack, with a piece of stone poorly fit into the gap.  _ Somebody _ had made a secret hole  _ underneath _ his own secret hole. Preposterous. 

Techno strode across the room with surprising urgency, diving for the hole as Bessie moved placidly out of the way. His gloved fingers dug into the gap, wrenching off the poorly-crafted cover with the uncomfortable grating of stone against stone. Damn, was that hole dark. He leaned forwards to peer into the gap, a grunt of confusion worming out of him.

The smell hit him first. His eyes watered profusely, and he drew back from the narrow maw of blackness with a poorly disguised retch. It smelt  _ rotten _ , like he had stuck his face into a particularly tainted patch of hell itself. Chat was positively howling now, a convoluted swirl of shrieking worry, words blurring into an indiscernible mass.

“Chat, please.” he groaned, pawing at various pockets and pouches until he drew out a white handkerchief. Tying it about his head in an attempt to protect his sensitive snout, Technoblade moved to gaze into the wretched hole once more. Chat had settled into a buzz of disquiet in the corner of his mind, giving him room to think for once.  _ Who the hell would willingly go into a place like that? How long had it been here? _ Steeling himself for whatever was lurking down there, Technoblade eased himself into the tight space. He fit the toes of his boots into narrow slashes in the wall, lowering himself precariously into the space. He didn’t have to go far, so he dropped the rest of the way.

When Technoblade turned around, his heart stopped. The space was so  _ grim _ . His chest felt strained and all-too-tight. But it wasn’t the dried vomit on the floor, or the fact that the smell had somehow worsened, nor the claustrophobic nature of its entire existence. It was the pile of bloody, damp blankets heaped upon a ledge against one wall.

There was a hand sticking out of it.

The hand looked like it belonged to one of the cursed, inhuman warlocks that Techno had spent the last few days slaying, obtaining magic as horrible as this place felt. It was grey, coated in so much dirt and blood and soot he could barely make out the thick bandages wrapped sloppily about it. Taking one stuttering step into the cramped space, Techno was next to it. The hand continued up, bandages ending in deathly pale skin, barely observable under caked carbon and scabs. The mould coloured blanket obscured the shoulder and neck of whatever it was, so Techno was forced to lift his eyes up and up until they rested on-

“Oh, fuck.” Techno choked, wobbly words muffled by the white handkerchief tied about his face. 

It was  _ Tommy _ . But it didn’t look like Tommy. His face was sunken, plastered so heavily with ash and blood Techno was unable to make out most of his skin. Tommy’s hair curled around his overly-prominent collarbones, singed at the unruly tips, matted with blood and dirt. His eyelids, bruised as black as obsidian, fluttered faintly. It was the only sign of life from the teen, and it could’ve been a trick of the torchlight. Wrenching the blanket away from the teen’s neck, Technoblade buried his fingers into the grime leaking down Tommy’s throat, searching desperately for a pulse. Muttering a string of curses, Techno realized he had forgotten to remove his glove in his haste to make sure Tommy was  _ alive _ . Wrenching it off and flinging it to the floor, the pigman leaned forwards feverishly, probing for a proper sign of life. A sign of  _ anything _ , because he couldn’t lose another  ~~brother~~ friend so soon.

There it was. A fluttering thrum, barely present but there all the same. Tommy, the stubborn fuck, was still clinging to life - and nothing was gonna stop Techno from keeping it that way.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tommyinnit spends a few delirious days in the hole underneath Techno's secret basement. He becomes steadily more confused and ill as the days progress, convinced that the shadows are familiar people. He wants to talk to them. He comes back to his senses somewhat at the sound of movement overhead, but zones out/dissociates when the mystery person draws near. He passes out before being found.
> 
> Technoblade returns home to find things relatively undisturbed. A strength potion has been drunk, but all he finds missing are a few iron tools and a sac of gapples. Many of his possessions are covered in a mysterious black grime, but are barely misplaced. Trying to speed up the search so he can check on Tommy, Techno makes his way into his secret basement, confused as to the thief's motives for burrowing under his house. Bessie the Second indicates the poorly-made cover over Tommy's hole, and Techno realizes that a very fucked up Tommy is under his house. Checking his vitals in a panic, Techno discovers that Tommy is still clinging to life, and intends to keep it that way.
> 
> \---------------------------------
> 
> I've got another big chapter coming your way this weekend. The chapters should get longer from here on out, as the first two are more expository/establish the beginning of the story. Stay cool, kids :]


	4. Blood God, or Medieval Doctor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Techno decides that the meat stump has to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MASSIVE TW!!//// Severe illness, frostbite, amputations, and wounds/gore.
> 
> We’re getting into longer chapters from here on out. More Technodoctor in the next few chapters, but this is the only chapter focused on the procedural side of things. 
> 
> As always, there’ll be a recap at the bottom. I’ll make it as good as possible, seeing as there’s quite a lot of grody descriptions in this one.

As Techno laid Tommy on the sturdy log table in his kitchen, he tried to keep his whirling mind in check. Thank  _ fuck _ Chat was being quiet, because the pigman could barely control his panic. Cloak and gloves deposited unceremoniously onto the living room floor, Technoblade set to work by snatching up a towel from the cupboard and throwing it near Tommy’s limp form. He sloshed warm water into a pot using a large emerald kettle, practically throwing it back into its place near the hearth.

He didn’t know the extent of the damage, but he could tell the teen was in rough shape. Carrying Tommy upstairs had been unsettlingly easy, his shoulder blades jabbing Techno’s stomach in a way that was far too uncomfortable to be healthy. For someone like Tommy. Soot lay thickly on his entire body, especially the ragged bandages concealing his hands. The carbon was practically a second skin, concealing damage and leaving the extent of Tommy’s injuries a mystery. The only major limbs uncovered by grime were Tommy’s legs, which had been washed by the snowdrifts. Bony knees jutted out from ragged shorts, and festering burns littering his skin in ugly blooms. Scrapes and cuts adorned his shins in a grotesque patchwork. His left ankle looked sharper than a knife, and the bones pressed painfully against pale, paper-thin skin. At least  _ that one _ wasn’t frostbitten. Tommy’s flimsy canvas shoe, which Techno had sliced off to save time, had provided just enough protection from the bitter arctic. The clean skin only made his right foot all the more horrific; so black it looked charred, with a white rim creeping higher up his calf. It was a log from an abandoned campfire; smoldered away to nothing, pale ash clinging to its edges, never to burn again.

The leg had to go. The necrosis was extensive, and if Tommy was going to survive another few days he’d need that septic breeding ground gone. Rushing about his kitchen to gather ratty old blankets and worn-out towels, Techno threw the lot on the ground, kicking it about until they covered a good area of the floor at Tommy’s feet. He snatched potions from the cabinets and shelves, emptying a heavy anaesthetic over a clean dishcloth before stuffing it into the teen’s mouth for his body to slowly absorb. Mixing potions of regeneration and healing into a ceramic bowl, the pigman dumped a large wad of gauze in the luminescent magenta mixture to soak. The bowl remained on the kitchen counter, bathing the undersides of his cupboards in a rosey pink glow. Turning sharply on one heel, Technoblade scrabbled up the ladder to his personal quarters, throwing himself at a sturdy dresser and hurling open the bottom drawer. Snatching a simple belt from his rather impressive collection, he practically dropped down the ladder to the main floor, striding towards Tommy’s unmoving form with a sense of urgency that made Chat whisper nervously.  _ Technodoctor, Technoheal, Technohelp, Technocalm, He’ll be okay, Help him.  _ Moving the leg of Tommy’s shredded khaki shorts out of the way, Technoblade looped the belt around his mid thigh, synching it tightly in a makeshift tourniquet. He needed as little blood to leave the teen’s emaciated body as possible.

Murmuring bitterly to himself, Technoblade strode to his Enderchest, staring at the carefully sorted interior with growing hesitance. The Axe of Peace, inappropriately named at the time it was forged, glinted from its home in the magical obsidian container. It was completely bound in velveteen furs and butter-soft leather, but purple magic still pulsed from gaps in the pale wrap. It  _ felt _ sharp, sitting there, completely covered in a dense cover. It had yet to see blood up until this point, the sole purpose of its creation. 

It’d see that blood today.

Lifting the weapon with an unprecedented delicacy, Technoblade carefully removed the wrappings, glancing at Tommy’s unconscious face as he went. The axe’s dark blade sliced the air as it was carried, leaking violet magic into the kitchen. The dull light turned Tommy’s matted hair into rotten wheat, his ash-stricken face thrown into an uncanny pallor. He looked dead. Technoblade passed the axe to his other hand, weighing it heavily. His hesitance was likely costing Tommy precious time, but the pigman couldn’t help but dwell on memories. His mouth was dry and sour as he swapped the Axe of Peace back to his dominant hand, before clamping both fists around it until his knuckles turned white. Lining up a few inches below Tommy’s kneecap, Technoblade lifted his head to blink at the ceiling. The pigman’s weary brown eyes felt far too wet for his liking. He couldn’t look, because looking reminded him of a much younger Tommy who was more ferret than child. He couldn’t watch as he raised the axe, who’s blade was practically shivering, to sever one of the legs that Tommy used to race through meadows on.

The Axe of Peace came down in one fell swoop. It practically fell through Tommy’s leg, cleaving it in two without a stutter.

Dropping the axe with a sickening clatter, Technoblade pressed a cloth to the wound, which was steadily oozing blood. Techno didn’t look at it too closely. He felt like being sick, and the voices were murmuring encouragement and sympathy that he didn’t deserve. Grabbing the bowl of potion swirling away on the counter behind him, Techno fished out a swath of thick gauze, pressing it onto the gaping scarlet flesh in place of the damp cloth. Tommy’s body reacted immediately; pale skin lacing it’s way over the gap in ropey, frail strands, eerily reminiscent of young vines. Techno wrapped the wound more firmly, violent crimson replaced with potion pink. Fumbling through his medicine cabinet in a daze, Techno retrieved a roll of thin, dry bandages to wrap over his stump. Tommy’s  _ stump. _ Chat sobbed softly over the term, and Technoblade blamed the overwhelming weight that had settled within his heart on their cries. Covering the magenta gauze with sheer white cloth, the piglin hybrid expertly bandaged the teen’s leg, wrapping until he was up above the knee before tying off the roll. In a haze, Techno packed away the medical supplies and swaddled the Axe of Peace in it’s beautiful furs. There wasn’t any blood remaining on it to be cleaned; it had all slid off almost immediately after severing  ~~his younger brother’s~~ Tommy’s frostbite-claimed leg, gathering in puddles on the blankets littering the ground. Techno removed the anaesthetic-soaked cloth from Tommy’s mouth delicately, hucking it in the bin. 

Trying to push away the frustrating pressure building behind his eyes, Technoblade turned to the less harrowing task. Tommy needed a bath. An actual washing was out of the question, so Techno slammed his towel into the freshly warmed water near Tommy’s head with excessive force. Wringing it out harshly, the piglin hybrid set about wiping the  ~~child’s~~ teen’s face with a gentleness rarely seen in the revered Blood God. Chat cooed softly in the depths of his mind. Tommy would’ve said he was “farming ‘awres.” Shaking his head to throw the annoying voice, Techno splashed a new corner of the cloth in the pot for a moment before continuing his work. The towel had grown filthy fast, and he would need to find a new one eventually. Tommy’s skin was scraped and blistered; healing burns singed his nose and chin, and his pallid lips were chapped and split. The tips of his ears, barely visible under his mess of matted locks, were black and white with frostbite. He’d figure out what to do with them later. 

Ignoring the disturbing abundance of older wounds, including a ghastly scar that trailed from his jaw to his cheekbone, Techno set about cleaning his arms. They were similarly battered; delicate skin scabbed with blotchy wounds and singed in patches. His concern currently lay on the ratty bandages, or what was under them. They had been wrapped so thickly, Tommy’s skeletal fingers looked a healthy width. The bandages were buried so deeply in soot and grime, they blended with the rest of his ash-laden skin. Grimacing, Techno wiped the last of the remaining filth from the teen’s elbows before slicing away the thick wrappings, which covered the entirety of his forearms and hands.

They were horrible. Festering blisters bloomed across webbed burn scars, snaking all the way down to his bloodied and battered hands. His fingers were so narrow and knobbly, they could’ve been broken by the wind. Tommy was missing half a fingernail on his right thumb, and the tips of his other fingers were singed black and coated with blood. Techno didn’t think Tommy was one for arson these days, but the smattering of burns across his  _ entire _ body told a different story. Wiping away the clotted blood as best he could, Techno removed more gauze from its violently pink bath to rewrap the teen’s disfigured hands. 

He covered the gauze with plain white bandages before stepping back to stare solemnly at his kitchen. It was an absolute wreck; bloody blankets and towels littered the floor, draping off the edges of the large wooden table underneath Tommy’s unconscious body. If it weren’t for the shallow rise and fall of Tommy’s chest, he would’ve looked dead. Heaving a sigh from stress-strained lungs, Technoblade gathered up the feather-light teen gently, stepping through a doorway on the southern wall of the kitchen. The living room opened before him; curtain-shielded windows set behind towering bookshelves, squashy armchairs and a matching sofa upholstered a deep pine green, and an unlit stone hearth sitting patiently against the far wall. The room was submerged in inky evening shadows, broken faintly by the glittering shroomlights wrapped about an elaborate Christmas tree, sitting in the corner closest to the kitchen. Phil had insisted they get one, and Techno had obliged. Laying Tommy carefully upon the massive sofa, Technoblade threw a few pine logs into the hearth, lighting it with a well practiced flick of flint and steel. The room was immediately bathed in soft golden light, which danced on glazed flower pots and caught the gold inlay on the spines of books. The firelight played across the intricate glass ornaments on his Christmas tree, who’s upper branches remained in deep gloom, lost in the high rafters. He would’ve moved Tommy to the bedroom upstairs, but jostling the wounded teen was risky, and the couch was big enough to pass as a bed any day.

Collapsing wearily into the armchair by the fire, Techno peered over the back of the couch towards the catastrophe in the kitchen, his head resting heavily in one hand. It’d be best to get that sorted. 

It was gonna be a long night.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technoblade gathers potions, gauze, warm water and towels into his kitchen. Tommy is laid on the table, so grimy that it's impossible to discern the extent of his injuries. Techno checks over Tommy's left foot, which is unsettlingly skinny but otherwise unharmed. His right foot is far beyond saving. While soaking large amounts of gauze in a mixture of health and regen potions, Techno uses the Axe of Peace to amputate the frost-bitten limb. Bandaging the stump, Techno tends to Tommy's other injuries. His face is burned/battered, and the tips of his ears are heavily frostbitten. Techno uses warm water and a towel to wipe away grime, and rewraps Tommy's hands with potion-soaked gauze. Once the treatment is done, Techno moves Tommy onto the sofa in the living room. 
> 
> \----------------------------------------------
> 
> Recent streams? What recent streams?
> 
> Based on recent canon events, this story is definitely classified as an AU. I'll still accommodate certain elements, but I have my own ending (which involves the discs) planned out at this point.


	5. Life With a Comatose Roommate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Techno’s been keeping busy. TommyInnit is taking a very long nap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MINOR TW!!//// Wounds, old scars, heavy dissociation, and passing out. 
> 
> Back-to-back chapters pog?? I’m breaking my update schedule, because the last chapter was just exposition and I think that’s boring. I’m really getting into the groove of the story, and the narrative’s really coming together in my head. So have more pain! :]
> 
> It’ll be prominently Techno POV for a while, as I wanna leave Tommy’s mental state as a bit of a mystery. I’ve got loads of plans that I hope you’ll like. If you don’t, sucks to suck I guess :]

Hot, soapy water sloshed against Technoblade’s forearms as he swept a ratty sponge over a blue ceramic plate. He’d been cleaning the exact same dish for the last five minutes, staring out the window into the sunset-washed tundra, allowing chat’s murmurings to fill his mind. The silence had grown deafening the past three days, and a sense of despair was starting to leak into his conscience. Chat had decided it was their duty to keep him in high spirits, a task that they dove into with utmost pride.  _ Technohelp, Technopog, You’re doing great nerd, Big Brother pog, Technocare. _ They were consoling him. He wasn’t sure if he  ~~deserved~~ wanted it, but it was a good distraction from the unconscious teenager sprawled out on his sofa.

Techno had spent the rest of the first night gathering up blood-spattered blankets, grotesque bandages, and the loose rags that Tommy had been parading as clothing for god knew how long. The piglin hybrid had averted his gaze as best he could while changing Tommy into a flowy white top and loose, slate-grey trousers, trying to ignore roping scars and protruding ribs as he went. Techno didn’t count it as a huge violation of privacy, but he was sure that Tommy would give him an earful over it when he woke up. He’d chanced a few minutes away from the cabin to burn the trash in the neighborhood lava pool, watching the bandages and blankets disintegrate in swirling magma instantaneously. It was a pretty sanitary system, and chat had praised him extensively for thinking of it.

The early hours of that morning were spent toting the teen’s meager belongings into the living room, laying them at the foot of the sofa, tucked out of the way but easily visible. Technoblade elected to leave the stolen goods there as well; the golden apples glowed in the dancing firelight, waiting for the teen to stir. Once it was cleared out, he filled the horrible den with gravel and fit the poorly made cover on top. Bessie the Second lowed softly, watching him with what Techno assumed was pity. Pity he didn’t deserve. He was exhausted; fighting necromancers for four days, only to practice medieval-esque medicine on the half-dead teen living in a hole under his secret basement. Weariness dragged heavily at his bones, bringing his lids together whenever he paused for a moment’s respite. If he paused for too long, an overwhelming nervousness bubbled up his throat, forcing Technoblade to drop whatever he was doing and rush to check on the comatose blonde in his living room.

So he kept busy. He scrubbed the kitchen clean with potions and soap, tended the fire obsessively, and prepared hearty meals for two that would be eaten by one. He fed Tommy by placing a broth-soaked cloth in his mouth and allowing it to drip. Choking to death, after all the effort they’d gone through, would be a shitty way for Tommy to go. Technoblade tended Tommy’s wounds every few hours, replacing bandages and taping antiseptic gauzes over festering blisters, which peppered his skin like grotesque freckles. He had been forced to carve off the black frostbite adorning the tops of Tommy’s ears on the second day, worrying of sepsis when he noticed an angry red rim around the obsidian-coloured skin. Tommy’s ears were currently wrapped in pink and white gauze, comically pointy and elvish in shape. The more shallow wounds began to fade, and a delicate layer of skin grew over Tommy’s stump. It was angrily pink and bumpy, roping like young vines over muscle and bone, but it was progress. Techno’s potion-soaked dressings were definitely speeding along the process. He dozed between jobs, slumped heavily in one of the squashy armchairs, across from Tommy and next to the roaring hearth. The rests never lasted for longer than an hour, but Techno had gotten by on less sleep in the past. Besides, Tommy would need him when he woke up.

Technoblade sighed heavily, setting the plate - which had been scrubbed so hard, the blue glaze was peppered with white scratches - into the drying rack. Wringing water from his hands, Techno glanced at the kitchen table. A set of woodworking equipment was thrown haphazardly across its mahogany surface, powdered with sawdust and wood chippings. Laying across one end was the humble beginnings of a prosthetic; edges rough, blocky corners, and definitely too large. Techno had begun working on it between the more pressing jobs, a distraction when he couldn’t doze. Tommy would need one eventually, anyway. It was made of solid walnut, an impressively strong wood so that it would last longer than a day strapped to Tommy’s knee. Wiping his hands on a floral patterned dish towel, Techno gathered up a bowl, heading towards a pot in the hearth to ladle out more soup for Tommy.

Technoblade sloshed chicken broth on his hand when a thump reached his ears, echoing from the living room doorway. Cursing harshly, Techno tossed the bowl onto the butchers-block counter, whipping around to face the doorway.

Grey eyes stared back.

Tommy Innit was on his knees in the doorway, pale linen shirt crumpled and hanging loosely from his far-too-spindly form. He was a bundle of sharp edges; collarbones jabbing up between the collar of his flowy top, twig-thin fingers clutching the wooden edging of the door like claws, eyes sunk behind pronounced cheekbones and bruise-coloured bags. A matted, curly blonde mane fell about his shoulders, puffing out from his head with unbelievable volume. It looked like he had crawled on all fours from the sofa; the knees of his trousers were scuffed and his bandages had been disturbed. They were both frozen for a long time; Tommy, a deer caught in the headlights, and Techno struck dumb by the sight.

When Techno started forwards with a warm “Tommy,” everything went to shit. Tommy let out an inhuman shriek, faceplanting when he tried to rise on a foot that wasn’t there. Techno swore softly, squeezing his weary eyes shut against a sudden headache, propping himself up against the counter. Chat was screaming nearly as loud as the teen had, but their cries were prolonged.  _ Oh my god, Technohurry, Catch him, He’s gonna run I know it, He’s awake, Technohelp! _ Tommy was scrambling across the floor desperately, gangly arms pinwheeling as he lurched towards the door, mouth working around incomprehensible blubbering. He hadn’t figured out that a major part of his body was simply  _ missing _ , and his terror only grew when he couldn’t move properly. Technoblade came out of his momentary stupor, rushing towards the door, throwing himself between the injured teen and the outdoors. Tommy slammed into his legs at full-tilt, ricocheting off without affecting Techno at all. The teen’s mouth was wide in a silent scream as he changed tact, rapidly reversing, dragging himself away from the piglin hybrid. What the blonde didn’t realize was that the opening to the cellar was directly behind him.

Oh shit.

Techno reached out his hand desperately, attempting to grab Tommy before he could plummet down the ladder. Tommy flinched violently at the sudden movement, lurching into the opening and disappearing down the ladder. The only sound that came from the cellar was a sickening thump. Lunging forwards, the piglin hybrid stared down the hole to where Tommy should be. He wasn’t there. The newly replaced bricks were speckled with blood, but Tommy was nowhere to be found. Swearing profusely alongside Chat, Techno scrambled down the ladder at record breaking pace. He whipped around, scanning the room for the injured teen desperately. It was the sound of humming that finally drew his eyes.

Tommy was pressed into an impossibly small gap between the chests, his hazy grey gaze fixed at a point to the left of Techno’s head. He looked catatonic; limbs limp and unmoving, mouth slightly parted in a slack-jawed daze, eyes unseeing. His knees were drawn up to his chest, one hand tangled deep in his grimy hair, the other loosely grasping the dip in his collared top. The only sign of life was the eerie melody of  _ Chirp _ , whispering from wet lungs and echoing through the room. The tune grated against Tommy’s throat, bubbling through mucous and tearing his underused vocal chords to smithereens. It made the pigman’s skin crawl.

“...Tommy, hey, it’s okay. I-I’m not tryin’ to hurt‘cha.” Techno began, moving towards the corner cautiously and trying to keep his monotone drawl light and unthreatening. Tommy didn’t seem to notice, his consciousness hundreds of miles away.

“I need you to come out of that gap, Tommy. How’d you even fit in there?” he murmured, masking his disbelief with a weak attempt at humour. Chat had quieted to a panicked clatter in the centre of his mind, reflecting his own concerns.  _ How did he get in there, What happened to him, Why is he humming, Technohelp, Technoworried, He’s not okay. _

A few of Tommy’s wounds had reopened, and blood was oozing from a grotesque blister on his cheek, its gauze covering discarded on the floor nearby. Steeling himself, Technoblade reached out a tentative hand, wrapping it about the teen’s frail wrist. The size difference was sickening. At the touch,  _ Chirp _ died abruptly in Tommy’s throat. His pupils rolled back behind dark lids, hands falling into a tumbled heap upon his lap. Unsure and disturbed, Techno maneuvered the unconscious teen from the crevice, worried about snapping him in half. He seemed so brittle and breakable, a painful contrast to _ everything _ he ever knew about the kid. The back of Tommy’s linen shirt was dirty, flecked with fresh blooms of scarlet. He must’ve scraped himself when he fell. Gathering the frail teen against his chest, Techno hoisted him up with far too much ease, carrying him towards the ladder with a weary sigh. Tommy’s head lolled against the crook of his neck, his wild mane tickling Techno’s nose.

  
The Blood God was  _ not _ cut out for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tommy has been unconscious for three days. Technoblade spends the rest of the first night cleaning up and disposing of bandages and blankets. He spends the next few days caring for Tommy and carving the beginnings of a prosthetic. Tommy's frostbitten ears had to be partially amputated.
> 
> Techno spills chicken soup on his hand, startled by a sound from the living room. Tommy is up, and very spooked. The teen freaks out, faceplants, and falls down the ladder. Techno finds him humming 'Chirp' in a corner of the cellar, completely checked out from reality. While the pigman is trying to coax him out, Tommy promptly passes out.
> 
> \--------------------------------------------------------
> 
> I won't be doing back-to-back's very often, so don't get too used to it. I'm a bit ahead of writing right now, and thought that the last chapter was pretty tedious. So I'm feeding you Tommy content as a peace offering.


	6. The Future Freaks Me Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy wakes up. Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No real tw’s for this, except for some minor description of injury and a lot of sadness.
> 
> Things are still bad :']

The fire crackled merrily as Techno lay Tommy against the pine-green couch, propping him up using numerous plush pillows. He was in tan sweats and a fresh linen top, white bandages peeking out of the tapered neckline. Tommy had done significant damage to himself during his panicked rise from unconsciousness; battered and bloody knees, reopened wounds, and a horribly scraped back from his fall to the cellar’s brick floor. He had torn some of the tissue covering his stump, skin still young and incredibly delicate. The teen had stirred faintly while Techno cleaned the wounds, but was otherwise unresponsive. The puffy sleeves of the cream top fell to the base of Tommy’s knuckles, spread atop a thick, sunshine-yellow quilt. Phil made it as a combined housewarming gift and Christmas present, and Techno had used it to its full extent throughout the first year of his retirement. The only year of his retirement, it seemed. 

A bowl of chicken soup lay on the hearth of the fireplace, kept hot by fire-warmed limestone. Rather than the fatty broth that the pigman had been feeding Tommy, this bowl was overflowing with carrots and shredded poultry. Tommy was severely malnourished, and though broth had kept him alive while he was unconscious, he’d need something heartier to actively recover. They’d need to start small. No matter how much Techno wanted to load the teen’s plate with steak, potatoes, and bread, a full meal wouldn’t stay down. Sinking heavily into his squashy armchair, Techno pulled his sleeves - which had been up above his elbows while he worked - back around his wrists. They were made of a rich emerald silk, flowing glamorously about his large arms. He watched Tommy in sombre silence for a minute, contemplating the teen alongside Chat, before turning to stare out the window. His reflection stared back. 

Techno looked the same way he felt; miserable. Long gone was the hulking rose-grey boar of legend, bearing a great mane of feather-soft fur pulled partially into a luxurious braid. The intimidating pig-headed creature - rearing its head on the battlefield, brandishing tusks the size and shape of bull horns, cape whipping in the wind - was nowhere to be seen. Instead, an exhausted human sat in its place; small tusks jutting out between frowning lips, bags haunting his almond eyes. Mousy brown roots were beginning to grow out, infecting his blush-pink lockes, knotted in a lank braid down his back. His scarlet cape was tucked away, carefully folded in a closet. He watched his reflection silently, until a low groan reached his pig-like ears.

Tommy’s hands were up to his face, the heels of his palms pressed against his eyes, swaddled fingers lost in his unruly golden mane. They trembled slightly. Techno figured it was the severe malnutrition. Running his willowy fingertips down his face, Tommy’s eyes swept towards Techno, fixing upon him. The teen automatically seized up, muscles as taught as suspension cables. His hands curled up into pale half-fists, grey eyes bulging out of his gaunt face. The blonde could probably spring to the rafters at the subtlest sign of aggression, missing foot and all. The reaction speed would be impressive, if it wasn’t so grim. It was an odd expression on Tommy. Techno stared back as nonchalantly as possible, trying to ignore the clammer of anxiety from Chat. Spooking Tommy  _ again _ wasn’t high on his list of priorities.

“Hey, Tommy.” the pigman drawled, keeping his tone as neutrally welcoming as he could. His head was resting in one large hand, ankles loosely crossed, not a single muscle tense in his entire body. Tommy studied him for a long time, practically vibrating, smokey eyes swirling with unreadable information. His mouth worked soundlessly while his gaze flickered across Techno, searching for information. Or a threat. Or both.

A hoarse bubble gurgled from Tommy. He paused to clear his throat, eyes widening minutely, shoulders caving forwards. There was a heavy pause, then-

“...’Owh do.” Tommy’s voice strained around the words, crackling horribly on the final syllables. It was a whisper, barely audible over the crackling fire. A wet cough followed the sound, harshly jolting the teen, forcing his head towards his lap. Techno’s mouth tightened into a grimace, watching the teen with growing worry. The piglin hybrid couldn’t tell if the teen’s meek demeanor and quiet words were from nerves, or a general inability to be loud. Because Tommy was  _ loud _ ; loud in his actions, in his rousing speeches and grandiose gestures.  _ This _ Tommy was painfully quiet, which couldn’t be right. Waiting patiently for Tommy’s colourless gaze to find him again, Techno leisurely uncrossed his ankles, straightening as he planted his shoes flat on the ground. The pigman’s hand fell into his lap, and he threaded his fingers together daintily. Tommy froze at the movement, paling to a bone white. His cheeks grew blotchy while he tried to fight down a cough, keeping his attention solely on Technoblade. It was rather unsettling. It made Techno’s chest tight. 

“I’ve got some soup for’ya.” Techno hummed, gesturing with a tilt of his head towards the fire. Tommy’s gaze remained firmly on the pigman, though his shoulders shifted minutely towards the hearth. Rather than rising to his full height and walking towards the fireplace, Techno slid from the pine-green armchair to the hardwood floor, planting himself next to the roaring fireplace. Tommy had a small seizure at the movement, throwing himself back against the down-filled cushions, legs shooting out under the blanket. The teen spluttered around a cough, choking on it in an attempt to keep Technoblade in his panicked sights. They both froze after that, Techno’s calloused fingers hovering over the bowl of chicken soup. It was ivory, simple pink tulips on the sides. The teen’s eyes flicked from Techno’s face to his hands, regarding the bowl for only a split second before darting up again to repeat the frantic loop. 

After what could have been hours, Tommy eased downwards, his legs relaxing faintly. Taking that as a sign of progress, Techno clasped both hands around the bowl of soup, rising to his feet at a snail’s crawl. The blonde’s breathing picked up faintly, whistling audibly, but he didn’t completely lose his shit. Techno figured he was really hungry. Approaching at a painfully slow pace, Techno held out the bowl to the teen, whose face was screwed up in apprehension. He had the yellow quilt in a death grip, fingers twisted up in the heavy fabric. The bowl remained between them for a moment, Tommy’s lips opening and closing softly as he stared at the bowl. His eyes danced, as though regarding a pile of diamonds rather than Techno’s measly chicken soup.

“..I-I can…” he rasped, silver eyes flickering up, eyebrows softened pleadingly. Confused and trying very hard to hide it, Techno held out the bowl more firmly. Tommy shrunk away from it, gulping nervously, adam's apple threatening to slice through his thin throat.

“C-C-Can I…” Tommy whispered, constricting the blanket in his grip. His gaze fell back to the bowl, mesmerized by it once more. Techno’s brow furrowed for a moment, but his expression smoothed over before the teen noticed.

“Take the bowl, Tommy. It’s for you.” he hummed, pushing it forwards once more. This time, Tommy tentatively extended his own hands, holding the soup with extraordinary care. As though it was the most precious thing in the world. His hands shook violently at the weight of it, but not a single drop spilled.

“Tha-anks.” he rasped, coughing thickly as he set the tulip-adorned dish in his lap. With unsteady hands, Tommy began shoveling the soup into his mouth. Each bite was frantic, punctured by nervous glances in the boar’s direction. Techno had settled back into his armchair, taking the pressure off of the jumpy teen. He wasn’t good with emotions to begin with, and this ‘New Tommy’ was giving him whiplash. The skeletal figure sitting on his sofa, anxiously shoveling soup into his mouth as though each bite was his last, wasn’t Tommy. It wasn’t his Tommy.

When Tommy started licking the bowl clean, Techno was surprised but didn’t comment. He simply waited until the teen was satisfied before holding out one hand to take the bowl. Tommy stared at the hand as though it was going to bite him, shoulders curled in front of his chest as he handed the dish over. The minute the ceramic was removed from his hold, Tommy retracted, knees curling up towards his chest and hands held loosely in front of his face, peering at the pigman between curled fingers. The teen froze up suddenly, eyes widening between the gaps in his fingers, gaze leaving Techno to stare at the quilt. That was new; Tommy hadn’t taken his attention off of the pigman  _ once, _ until now. Techno placed the bowl atop a side table, watching cautiously as Tommy lowered his hands. Slowly, the teen extended his legs outwards, hands falling to hover above his chest. Chat whispered nervously amongst themselves. Technoblade shifted to stand next to Tommy, guessing what was about to happen. The teen didn’t notice.

Tommy stared at his quilt-covered feet intensely, jaw slack and grey eyes round. The blanket shifted faintly, his toes flexing against the patchwork of fabric. Then he stilled, dark brows furrowing faintly, as though the lack of movement confused him. His foot moved again, then stillness. Movement, then nothing. Tommy’s lower lip began to temple, and one bandaged hand twitched forwards, gripping the yellow patchwork nervously. He drew the blanket back slowly, all the way up to his knees, uncovering his foot. His  _ singular _ foot. The deafening silence was punctured when a quiet wheeze choked past Tommy’s lips. A gutted whisper of despair. Turning his anguished gaze to Techno, Tommy stifled a cough-stricken sob, tears welling against his lashes, threatening to spill onto the dark bags hugging his lids. The look was a question Tommy couldn’t ask. A plea for answers Tommy already knew.

“I’m sorry.” Techno murmured, his own voice betraying him. It sounded thick, and nearly broke over the syllables. Chat wailed. Tommy was hiccuping now, tears soaking through gauze, catching on the scars and burns that littered his young skin. His skeletal hands hovered over his lap, practically vibrating as he trembled, breathing with sickly rasps and choked sobs. Unsure, Techno reached forward one large hand, placing it gently on Tommy’s shoulder. 

The teen lurched violently before freezing up, short circuiting at the contact. It was like someone had put Tommy on pause, grey eyes fixed upon Techno’s face with mounting panic. Tears poured down his cheeks silently. Indiscernible memories and emotions flickered behind the swirling clouds. They stared at each other for a long moment.

“I’m so, so sorry, Tommy.” Techno rasped, trying to ignore the way his heart constricted at the reaction. When he shifted to remove his hand, Tommy suddenly went into overdrive. His sobs picking up with renewed vigour, rushing to clutch at Techno’s calloused hand with desperate, frail fingers. Techno blinked in surprise when Tommy buried his face against the pigman’s knuckles, the teen’s trembles rattling all the way up Techno’s bulky arm. Trying to hold back a grimace of uncertain discomfort, Techno tentatively placed his other hand on the crown of the teen’s head, losing his fingers in the greasy, blood-matted blonde mane. Tommy jolted, his whispered wails picking up in intensity, leaning into the contact as if it were a lifeline. It probably was. The blonde looked so  _ young _ in that moment, so  _ irrefutably _ young. Techno remembered vaguely that he was only sixteen. That he was barely thirteen when he had left home, and barely fifteen when he was told to “die like a hero” in the ruins of a nation he barely understood.

Techno wondered when Tommy’s childhood ended. It seemed like a long time ago.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tommy wakes up, and is incredibly jumpy. He says very few words, and Techno tries not to spook him. Technoblade gives him chicken soup, which Tommy treats like a pile of riches. During one of Tommy's spooked episodes, he realizes that something is amiss. Unable to move one foot, Tommy pulls back his blanket and realizes that the immovable foot is missing. He cries, and Techno tries to comfort him.
> 
> \-------------------------------------
> 
> Tommy isn't as delirious pog??? Things are getting interesting. I'm excited for Techno to realize the extent of Tommy's trauma, but I don't wanna rush it because I'm a simp for that slow-burn pain. I touched on it with the ages bit at the end ;]
> 
> Lemme know what you think!! :]


	7. Getting Used to It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Techno can’t figure ‘New Tommy’ out. He’s trying his best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MINOR TW!!//// Slight panic attacks.
> 
> Important note: “-*-” just means a break in the narrative. Though it was used as a POV switch in the third chapter, this time it’s a time skip! I haven’t gotten my fill of Techno POV yet.
> 
> Super long chapter? You betcha. More trauma? Absolutely. Technosupport? Shitloads of it. Amping up the fluff a little bit, though Tommy doesn’t want it yet. We’ll get there. Eventually. :]

By the time Tommy stopped crying, the sun was hugging the horizon. Molten sunbeams seeped through the south-facing windows, turning clay vases to amber and drab book covers into precious gems. The ornaments on the christmas tree, next to the door in the northeast corner of the room, glittered brilliantly. The spun glass reflected reds and whites onto the vaulted rafters, puncturing the perpetual gloom of the high ceilings. Dust motes danced lazily in the golden light, waltzing to the crackle of the fire before disappearing into slanted shadows. The only melody aside from the constant hiss from the hearth was Tommy’s sniffles; ragged wheezes stabbing painfully at Technoblade’s heart. The teen was playing with Techno’s fingers gently, lost in a sombre daze, silver gaze unfocused while he fiddled absently with the boar’s hands. The feeling of bandages trailing over his cuticles and knuckles was unfamiliar. The pigman wasn’t sure if he was comfortable with it or not, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to say anything about it. He was sitting cross-legged on the fluffy sheepskin rug, which covered the dark hardwood between the pine-green furniture and trailed to the hearth. His free hand, which had been lost in the teen’s blood-greased locks for ages, was resting on one knee. When Tommy hiccuped softly, Chat’s constant cries of worry picked up in a gentle wave.  _ Tommysad, Sadinnit, Technosupport, This isn’t good, Technohelp, He’s never like this, What happened, Technobrother. _ Technoblade wasn’t sure whether he appreciated their input at the moment. He was feeling unusually unsure lately.

Coughing thickly into one trembling elbow, the blonde’s gaze finally refocused, travelling around the room. He surveyed ornate vases and simple pots, studying their flowering contents blankly. His colourless gaze trailed over the spines of books, hovered on stray pens, and studied framed posters. He even watched the illuminated dustmotes sashay their way through the air, hopping from one shaft of golden light to the next. His baleful eyes noted every minute detail, every nook, every edge.

Everything except the roaring fire. 

They skipped forcefully over the hearth, like the arm of a record player hopped over scratched vinyl. Tommy squeezed Techno’s fingers minutely, bandaged fingers twisting over calloused knuckles, and the pigman masked a frown of concern. Another aspect of ‘New Tommy’ to add to the list. It was like Tommy had groped into his chest and constricted his heart, rather than his fingers. It hurt. When those watchful grey eyes returned to Techno’s hand, they widened considerably.

“S-S-Sorry, I’m sorry.” He croaked, releasing Techno’s fingers as though they were suddenly scalding him. The boy’s gentle tremors picked up in intensity, rocking his shoulders and clattering his knees together. 

“I-I didn’t, I wasn’t, I was only-” his words devolved into blubbering, incoherent rasps and gurgles, incomprehensible but deeply remorseful. Tommy’s cheeks grew blotchy as a stifled a cough, continuing to gurgle senselessly until he was literally choking out apologies. Techno’s growing worry was matched by mounting panic from Chat, clamoring about in his head, pushing him to do something,  _ anything _ , to help Tommy. 

Laying his broad hand back in Tommy’s grasp, Techno hummed an assuring “It’s okay, Tommy.”

Bad move. The sudden contact drew out a whispered shriek from a now distraught Tommy, who seized up so violently he almost elbowed Techno in the face. This was immediately followed by a fit of coughing so wretched, the pigman was certain Tommy was about to hack up a lung. The coughs forced the teen’s eyes shut, which only furthered his panic; he alternated between flailing wildly and curling up so small, he was nearly lost in his clothing. Techno’s hand, which had been thrown away the minute it landed in the teen’s swaddled grasp, hovered uselessly in the air between them. Tommy was sobbing, though his tears had long run out, so it was more of a frantic, raw hiccuping than a proper cry.

Techno hastily uncrossed his legs, rising to his knees, hands hovering uselessly around the quaking teen. Touching seemed like a bad idea, and the boar had endured more human contact in the last few hours than he had in the last few years, which was rather overwhelming.  _ Everything _ was overwhelming; Chat was screaming, Tommy was wailing, and Techno hadn’t slept properly in at least a week. 

“H-Hey, woah, hold on now. You’re okay.” he hummed, deciding that at least one of them had to talk. Tommy’s whispered wails only picked up in intensity, cowering against the dark upholstery as if he were trying to merge with it.

“You haven’t done anything wrong.” Techno reasoned, moving his hands, gesturing with no real purpose other than the raw need to do something with them. Tommy’s colourless gaze swept towards him, disbelieving between his matted blonde fringe and bruised lids, as though Techno had told him the sky was green.

“I…” Techno swallowed thickly, “...I didn’t mind. It’s alright, t-to..” he gestured with his hands, figuring he didn’t have to put it into words. He wasn’t sure why he was stuttering. Tommy’s eyes bugged as he watched the movement, uncertainty and fear swirling in the storm of his irises. Techno sighed heavily, raising one hand, closing his eyes while pressing his thumb and index finger against his temples. Tommy had quieted down, hiccuping softly every few seconds. When almond found silver once more, Tommy looked apprehensive, as though forgiveness was too much of a luxury to be true.

“I’m not mad. I’ll never be mad at you for-” Techno gestured aimlessly once more, “-whatever that was.  _ Ever _ .” Chat cooed softly, encouraging the pigman. Techno tried not to be pleased at the praise. Tommy was no longer trying to merge with the sofa, the quilt drawn up to his blistered nose, eyes softened pleadingly.

“...R-Really?” he croaked, quiet words muffled further by the thick, sunshine-hued blanket. Tommy drew within himself once more, clearing his throat and spluttering around a cough. 

“I-I don’t beli-ieve you.” he murmured, twisting the blanket between his bandaged fingers, pulling it up to hug the bags under his eyes. “...But okay.”

Techno let his hands fall, dropping back to sit on his heels rather than his knees. It was the best he was going to get. Whatever anger Tommy was picking up on, it was directed at something else entirely. Dragging his calloused hands down his face, the piglin hybrid rocked backwards until his feet were flat on the ground, rising upwards in one fluid motion that was unfairly graceful. Tommy flinched, drawing the quilt up until only the top of his mane was visible.

“Let’s eat something.’ It’s gettin’ late.” Techno hummed, lobbing another log into the fire before turning and marching from the room. He could feel Tommy’s baleful, blank gaze on his back. He didn’t comment on it.

Once he was secluded in the kitchen, Techno barely resisted the urge to flip the table. He wanted to rip whoever had done this to Tommy apart, slowly and painfully severing each of their limbs. He also wanted to climb into his bed and hibernate for a week. It was an uncomfortable combination. The sleepless nights were dragging at his limbs, battles both physical and emotional weighing heavily on his shoulders. Banging and clattering about the kitchen angrily, Techno pressed his palms against his eyes, heaving out an angry groan. Chat murmured support and sympathy.  _ Technopog, Technosupport, You’re doing great, Technogood, Technorest, Technorelax. _

“Thanks, Chat.” he gruffed, absently searching through cabinets. His movements were slightly more relaxed after the swift internal pep-talk; less shoving, and more pushing. He knew exactly where the bowls were; the second shelf in the third cabinet from the window. Technoblade knew where everything was in his house, and yet he took the time to bustle about, opening and closing cupboards at random, examining their contents absently.

Technoblade was stalling. He needed time to calm down, before he accidentally scared the kid senseless.  _ Somebody _ had been messing with the teen during his exile, that was certain. The pigman had a nagging suspicion on who it could be, but couldn’t be certain until he got words other than apologies from Tommy. Slamming a new bowl down on the counter, Techno stared out the window at the moonlit tundra for a moment, trying to steady his breathing before he reentered the living room.  _ God _ , he was going to  _ tear _ the legs off of the culprit. Chat began chanting steadily in his head, which certainly wasn’t stoppering his anger.  _ Blood for the Blood God, Revenge, Blood for the Blood God, Rip and tear nerd, Blood for the- _

Ladling heaps of chicken soup into the bowl, the boar drew himself up, steeling his nerves and relaxing his shoulders. He couldn’t scare Tommy. They had to make progress, so that Technoblade could exact vengeance for him without worrying about leaving. Scaring Tommy was also bad for his heart. Holding the bowl in one large hand, the piglin hybrid drifted towards the southern doorway, leaning against the frame as he poked his head into the sitting room.

Describing Tommy as nervous was a severe understatement. His neck was lowered, shoulders caved forwards, hands constricting the blanket and pulling at his blood-matted hair. A low, incoherent string of mumbling whispered from his lips, just loud enough to overtake the sputter of the merry fire, head angled away from the hearth. Techno frowned softly. ‘New Tommy’  _ really _ hated fire, an unusual deviation from the Tommy he knew. When Tommy was a kid, he used to love it; mesmerized by the flames dancing in the hearth, ecstatic over fireworks, captivated by the glow as he waved little sparklers about on warm summer nights. The pigman realized with a guilty start that he didn’t classify Tommy as a kid anymore. The shivering, fire-fearing boy before him  _ couldn’t _ be a kid; it felt wrong.

“You wanna switch ‘round on the sofa, Tommy? You can see the tree that way.” Techno hummed, making his presence known as he fully entered the room. Tommy jolted, hands flying up to shield the back of his head, drawing his knees close to his chest in an instant. Shivering, the blonde turned around to gaze at Techno in dismay. 

Tommy gulped, gurgling for a second, before correcting himself and humming a soft “Yes, please.” Techno set the steaming bowl of soup on a side table before carefully grabbing the massive down pillows propping the teen up. Ensuring that Tommy knew what he was doing, Techno slid the cushions from behind his knobbly spine and placed them near his foot. Tommy shakily squirmed to his knees, clutching at the buttercup quilt and dragging it with him while he crawled across the rich green upholstery, keeping his legs shielded from view. 

Settling himself anxiously against the cushions, Tommy’s smokey eyes fixed upon Techno for assurance. Techno nodded once, and tension left Tommy’s body in waves. His shoulders slumped back into a gentle curve, no longer up to his ears and curled protectively in front of his chest. His head slumped to the left, lids sagging and mouth softening. Tommy’s fingers trailed absently across the edge of the quilt, which had settled over Tommy’s relaxed legs. Techno walked across the room slowly, trying his best to appear non-threatening. The blonde tensed up vaguely, hands moving hastily to grope at the buttercup blanket, but he didn’t have a small seizure or start crying. Technoblade counted it as a small victory, holding out the bowl - which had bluebells rather than tulips - with a soft smile. Tommy eyed the bowl with poorly concealed awe, gaze flicking up to stare at Techno. His mouth worked faintly, though no legible sound came out.

“Eat your soup, Tommy.” the piglin hybrid hummed, practically pushing it into Tommy’s weak fingers. Moving the bowl carefully to his lap, the teen spluttered out numerous ‘thank you’s’ and grateful gurgles, the spoon clattering against the ceramic as he held it in trembling hands. He paused every other bite to glance at Techno, who only nodded reassuringly until Tommy kept eating. He wasn’t exactly sure  _ why _ he had to encourage Tommy, but he did it anyway, because it was what the teen seemed to need. Chat agreed.

Halfway through the soup, Tommy was nodding off. The spoon slipped dangerously in his hands, slopping back into the bowl just shy of the edge. The teen’s grimy mane fell into his face, bruised lids drooping over colourless eyes.

“I’ll take that from you. Looks like you’re about’a fall asleep in it.” Techno hummed, stepping forwards from his place at the foot of the sofa. Tommy’s head jerked upwards, eyes widening minutely before sagging shut once more. Tommy hummed and yammered, voice croaky and low with exhaustion. His fingers tightened minutely around the bowl, groping for the spoon once more and sluggishly fishing out another bite. Techno sighed softly.

“You can have more in the morning.” the boar assured, taking another careful step closer. Tommy lifted his head once more, peering at Techno with blatant disbelief, but eventually conceded and held the bowl out with shivering hands. Techno gathered up the dishes, leaving momentarily to set them in the sink. He’d wash them later.

Wandering back into the sitting room, Techno leaned against the end of the sofa, contemplating Tommy in silence. The teen was on the verge of sleep, remaining awake only to keep his bleary eyes fixed on the bulky piglin hybrid at his foot. Techno cleared his throat, and Tommy’s head nodded upwards. His horrible mane hung wildly about his head; still blackened in spots, caked with blood and matted with grime. It needed to be dealt with before Tommy laid his head on Techno’s nicest pillows.

“Would you like me to cut your hair, or help you wash it.” he hummed, crossing scarred arms across his chest. Tommy was awake at that; his fingers knotting together in the sunshine yellow blanket, eyes bulging nervously. 

Stammering out strange noises for a few moments, Tommy finally managed to force out a weak “Wa-ash.” Techno nodded once, turning and drifting out of the room without a word. He avoided the kitchen, passing Edward and marching down a hallway stretching due west. Paintings and posters hung on the wall, and a window showing the inky sky peeked at him from the end. Techno swung open the door at the end of the hall, pressed into the southern wall between old propaganda and the window. The bathroom opened before him; the walls were white, layered tile and painted wood stretching up to dark oak ceilings, which accented the floorboards and supports. Fluffy blue towels were draped over wrought-iron rails, set into the wall next to a large stone tub. Heat seeped through the back of the fireplace, which pushed into the room between the tub and the sink. A toilet was tucked away in one corner, partially hidden behind a large navy wardrobe. Grabbing a tin basin from its place on a wall-mounted shelf, Techno strode to the tub, turning the brass handle and waiting for warm water to come pouring out. Filling the basin halfway, Techno nabbed a towel, his favourite shampoo and conditioner, and a washcloth before striding from the room, trying not to slop hot water all over the limestone floor. 

When he returned to the living room, Tommy’s nervous gaze found him immediately. He was twisting his shirt in his fists, any semblance of sleepiness gone from his hunger-panged face.

“You’ll have to move to the floor.” Techno hummed, politely averting his gaze while setting the basin on the low, wooden coffee table, which had been shoved into the corner during the early days of Tommy’s care. Before he could turn to assist the kid, he heard a muffled thump. Whipping around, the boar gaped at the tangled mess of teen and quilt on the floor; Tommy’s head stuck out comically from the quilt, the rest of his body simply a buttercup-coloured lump. Carefully, Tommy crawled towards Techno, face screwed up in apprehension as he sloppily maneuvered along, the blanket fisted tightly in his hands. His journey would’ve been smoother if he looked where he was going; Tommy’s nervous grey gaze was fixed upon Techno, searching for any sign of displeasure, waiting for an attack. Techno’s jaw was slack in surprise, but he quickly snapped it shut and jerked his head in a shocked nod. 

The teen took that as proper approval, settling with his back to the table, head resting easily in the basin of steaming water. The clear liquid immediately darkened, grime swirling away from the teen’s light locks in intricate clouds. Keeping his face carefully impassive, Techno dumped shampoo onto his hands.

“...I’m, err, gonna start now.” he hummed awkwardly, reaching forwards to scrub at Tommy’s matted mane. Despite the warning, the teen jolted painfully, skull cracking against the sturdy tin, hands tangling further in the mess of blanket covering his body. Technoblade paused, worry lacing with Chat’s amused snickers.  _ Technobath, Technomom, Nerd _ . Techno took a moment to silently scold them, waiting for Tommy to relax minutely before he continued.

-*-

After an hour and a half of intense scrubbing, Tommy was back on the sofa, having scrambled across the floor like a ferret, refusing Techno’s assistance with a series of nervous blubbers. A fluffy blue towel was draped over his head, curly hair poking out over his forehead and brushing the tops of his shoulders. It was considerably lighter in appearance, and had nearly doubled in volume despite being wet. Techno had rebandaged his ears, the gauze completely ruined by soapy water. Tommy was stiff as a board from the close proximity of the process, neck rigid and baleful eyes fixed upon Techno with fear. They were healing up nicely; oddly shaped, but no infection in sight. The teen had refused to let Techno cut away burned bits of hair, forcing out adamant “No’s” and “Please’s.” Small patches of dark hair remained, singed grotesquely, laying curled and broken over his brows. Tommy had only freaked out three times, sloshing water across the hardwood floor and nearly elbowing Techno in the stomach.

It went worse than the boar had expected, but it wasn’t a total shitshow, so it was something.

Humming absently, Tommy played with the cuff of his shirt, tugging it past his knuckles and rolling it between bandaged fingertips. His eyes were nearly closed, lashes brushing his too-pale cheeks, chin tucked towards his collarbone. Technoblade was sitting on one of the plush armchairs, watching the teen over the top of a book. 

“Lay your pillows flat. You’ll ruin your back, sleeping like that.” he hummed, looking at the pages of his book when Tommy’s head lurched upwards sluggishly. Tommy continued to absently hum his tune, scrawny fingers moving to tug his pillows flat. The towel fell from his head when he wiggled further down the couch, though he didn’t notice. He pressed himself flat against the upholstery, practically burrowing into the furniture. Curled up underneath the thick quilt, Tommy looked impossibly tiny.

Techno remained there, staring at the same two words of his novel, keeping half an eye on the teen until Tommy’s constant hums faded into silence. Raising his head, Techno watched on with vague concern. Tommy looked comatose, the thick quilt masking the rise and fall of his chest. Pushing down the irrational desire to check the teen’s pulse, Techno silently rose from his chair, snagging the towel from the rug before leaving the room. He was starving, and exhausted, and wanted nothing more than to lay down and rest. Plucking a bowl from the cupboard, Techno ladled himself a helping of soup and settled heavily at the kitchen table.

This was going to be harder than he thought.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tommy Innit cries until sunset. He fiddles with Techno's fingers in a daze, watching the room. Techno notes that Tommy can't bear to look at the fire, which is unusual. When Tommy realizes he's been playing with Techno's hands, he breaks down, and Techno barely calms him. Enraged and trying very hard to hide it, Techno goes to get the kid more soup. The pigman swears that he'll get revenge for Tommy, in very violent ways. Chat likes the idea. Techno helps Tommy switch up the way he's sitting on the sofa, so that he doesn't have to look at the fire anymore. 
> 
> Before Tommy can nod off into his bowl of soup, Techno makes Tommy choose between washing or cutting his hair. A nervous Tommy wants to have it washed, so Techno gets a basin with hot water in it and brings it to the living room. Tommy crawls over, and only freaks out a little bit. A drained Techno wants to go to sleep.
> 
> \-----------------------------------
> 
> We're nearly at 7500 hits?!? And 775 kudos??! You guys are insane. I can't believe how much traction this has gotten, and I'm so thrilled you like my after-school drabbles. I'm gonna try and work ahead over the next two weeks, before my course load gets heavier.
> 
> :] <3


	8. Christmas Time. Pogchamp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things haven’t been great, but the holiday cheer is pretty poggers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MILD TW!!//// Dissociation and hard spacing out. Only for the first two jumps, though!
> 
> I realize not everybody celebrates Christmas, but it was pretty prominent on the SMP during Tommy’s exile, so I had to include it. Some fluff, lots of Technosupport, and obvious angst ensues. :]

Chat roused Techno the morning after Tommy first awoke, the sun already high in the sky. Light poked through his curtains, prodding painfully at his eyes. Groaning, Techno rolled over onto his back, one arm coming up to rest over his face in a lazy attempt to block out the sun. Chat chided him loudly.  _ Technowake, Sleepy nerd, E, You have to check on Tommy, Technopog, Technomorning, Good morning, Technobreakfast. _

“...I’m up.” he gruffed, dragging his hands down his face, fingers catching on the small tusks of his human form. Pushing himself upwards in one fluid motion, Techno tugged a fresh outfit from his closet; a lapis-blue shirt made of delicately spun silk, cotton trousers dyed a rich sandy brown, and rose-grey wool socks. He rebraided his hair artfully, tying the end with a golden ribbon. Chat approved; They were always fans of luxury.

Lowering himself down the ladder, Technoblade’s spirits soared high and hopeful. Tommy had been alright the previous evening, aside from numerous fits of panic and obvious deviations in his normal mannerisms. It was certainly going to be harder than he had expected, but ‘New Tommy’ was manageable. Chat agreed, though some seeds of doubt were whispered amongst the thousands of voices resonating deep in his skull. The piglin hybrid chose to ignore the dissent, drifting throughout the kitchen silently. He gathered a new pot from a cupboard under the counter, a heavy wrought-iron frying pan from the wall, and various utensils from drawers. Plucking a whisk from a stained-clay pot near the sink, Techno figured that scrambled eggs would be a good way to start his morning. Naturally, Tommy would be having more soup; venison rather than chicken, just to keep things interesting. The teen would likely vomit if he ate anything hardier. Piling the utensils atop the counter near the stove, Techno waltzed towards the southeast corner, where the stacked chests that made up his pantry were mounted. He rooted through barrels, gathering paper-wrapped cuts of meat and fresh eggs. Fruit was plucked from imaginatively enchanted chests, and vegetables were drawn from leather holding pouches. Gathering the goods up in his arms, the boar chanced a curious glance into the living room, almond eyes flicking to the couch.

Techno’s good mood evaporated instantly. Tommy was sitting straight up, stiff as a board, staring at the corner blankly. His chapped lips moved around soundless words, hair sticking up wildly around his head, the carefully taped gauze ripped from his face. Technoblade tossed his ingredients on the table, jumbling them amongst woodworking tools and sawdust without a second thought. If the eggs smashed, so be it. He launched into the room as calmly as he could, frantic but hesitant to startle the teen. The blood drained from his face when Tommy didn’t react to his entrance, gaze thousands of kilometers away. His eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, hands fumbling with anything they could reach,  _ except _ the goods that he’d had stolen a week prior; They remained untouched, sitting idly on the floor next to him, bathed in orange by the embers of the dying fire. The blonde’s roving fingers avoided the items like the plague. The room had a heavy chill about it, and the rattling from Tommy’s chest was worsened by the cold. Scrambling to throw more logs on the dying fire, Techno squeezed his eyes shut against another Chat-fuelled headache, their worried cries reverberating painfully in his skull. The piglin tramped to the end of Tommy’s couch, settling down just shy of his foot. The sunshine-yellow quilt was wrinkled and warped by twisting fingers, but Techno didn’t care. He just wanted Tommy’s conscience to return from space, or L’Manburg, or wherever else he had lost it to.

“Tommy.” Techno called, placing a gentle hand on the boy’s shin. He didn’t react, unfocused eyes still staring through the walls. Now that the fire was crackling, a gentle humming rose from the teen’s throat;  _ Chirp _ whispered past his pale lips, barely drowning out the spitting flames. The tune wormed its way under Techno’s lavish shirt, stabbing between his ribs and piercing his heart.

“..Tommy.” Techno tried again, voice nearly cracking over the last syllable. His gruff was louder this time, rising over the croaked hum. Chat was sobbing, panic-stricken cries ricocheting off his skull. 

Tommy blinked slowly, eyes refocusing minutely as they swung towards the pigman’s face. As grey met almond blankly, Tommy’s brow furrowed, trying to figure out what was before him. Spotting Techno’s hand, Tommy processed it hazily until his body was jolted by a delayed flinch. Squeezing his eyes shut, the blonde stuffed his bandaged knuckles into his mouth, sluggishly trying to muffle the humming. Techno retracted his hand, brow softening with concern while he waited for Tommy to come to his senses. It took a few minutes for Tommy’s breathing to even out, and the familiar tune of  _ Chirp _ was distorted into something vague and unrecognizable. It likely wasn’t even a song, just an unconscious attempt to drown out the sputter from the hearth.

When Tommy’s bruised lids finally opened, he gazed into Techno’s face in nervous silence. The boy looked so  _ stricken _ , sadness and fear swirling in the clouds of his irises, pressing against his gaunt cheeks and shaking his lower lip. Creeping scabs split his face, previously hidden by the bandages now strewn about the floor. They had been wrenched off at some point in the night. Tommy’s knuckles were still pressed into his mouth, hums rasping forth around the worn bandages. Techno rose slowly from his place at Tommy’s foot, cringing internally when the teen shrunk away from him, the vague humming picking up tempo into a nervous clatter. Tommy’s breath rattled, and he coughed thickly against the bandaged hand pressed between his teeth.

“...You okay?” Techno asked lamely, gathering the torn bandages from the floor. Tommy didn’t respond, and Techno didn’t expect him to. With a heavy heart, Techno left the room in silence, feeling Tommy’s gaze slip off of him to rest on the Christmas tree. Techno gathered up the ingredients for their breakfast from the table, dusting sawdust from apples and examining the eggs for cracks. Chat was apprehensive. Techno was devastated.

-*-

The next few days passed in a blur. The sparse, whispered words Tommy spoke on the first day seemed like an anomaly at this point; the teen hadn’t spoken an actual word since, whispering incoherently for permission to eat, gesturing faintly to the door when he needed to use the bathroom. Techno would offer his assistance, and Tommy would refuse, blubbering at him while he slid to the floor. With the quilt in tow, he crawled on hands-and-knees down the hall, the boar trailing behind him. Techno would wait at the end of the hall, out of the way of the door, then follow Tommy back to the living room when he emerged. Techno wasn’t sure if Tommy was stubbornly independent, or terrified of being carried. The teen spent most of his time humming and staring, lips slightly parted, bandaged fingers roving endlessly, thoughts unimaginably far away. The blonde always refused to look when Techno changed his bandages, a daily routine that Tommy seemed to fear above all else. He yammered frantically whenever the pigman uncovered his wounds, staring pointedly at the ceiling and walls, voice growing hoarse and quiet until his constant protests were no longer audible. The scabs on his face remained uncovered, scarlet webbing across his cheeks. The rest of his wounds were healing nicely, closing into bubbled pink scars or fading altogether. It seemed as though Tommy’s external damage was the least of his worries, now.

When he wasn’t bringing Tommy soup, tending his wounds, or supervising his wobbly crawls, Techno was carving. The boar slumped over the kitchen table for hours, chisels and knives in hand, slaving over sturdy slabs of walnut. Blocky edges slowly became curved, embellished with swirling engravings and polished with fine-grit sandpaper. Leather and fur was sewn and glued, and glittering iron bolts were screwed into dark wood. Every few hours, Chat would draw him from his work-induced daze, forcing him to do menial tasks; feed Carl, feed Bessie the Second, feed himself, chop firewood,  _ sleep _ . Wood shavings were jammed into the cracks of his table, scraps piling around his feet and spread about the kitchen floor. He had yet to sweep them up.

On December twenty-third, Techno leaned back against the bluebell velvet of his chair, sandpaper falling from his hands. His fingers were stiff, and he flexed them experimentally while scrutinizing his handiwork. Brushing dust and bits of leather from the prosthetics surface, Techno allowed his lips to sag into a frown. Tommy’s vague hums drifted into the kitchen from the room behind him, barely audible, haunting the boar ceaselessly. Forcing the tune out of his head, Techno placed the prosthetic in the centre of the table, picking his way through debris on his way to the cellar in search of wrapping paper. This’d be a good present for Tommy. Maybe the teen would get some life back, if he had hope.

-*-

Christmas day dawned bright and cloudless, lilacs and ambers reflecting off the untouched snowdrifts. Techno was awake early, slumped back in his favourite pine-green armchair with a novel in hand. He wore black sweats and a chunky-knit maroon turtleneck, feet stuffed in bright green socks adorned with white reindeer. The pigman’s hair was up in a loose bun, pink wisps falling about his face. The Christmas tree glittered happily, shroom lights twinkling, firelight catching the presents piled at its base. Despite his relaxed shoulders and gently impassive expression, Techno was apprehensive, hyper-aware of the sleeping teen across from him.

When Tommy stirred, Techno nearly jumped out of his skin. Stuffing a slender gold ribbon into his book before tossing it on the side table, the boar leaned forwards minutely, uncrossing his ankles. Tommy raised one hand to rub his eyes, lower lip trembling faintly as he took in a shuddering breath. It didn’t rattle his lungs, and Technoblade was overjoyed when the teen’s cough was dry rather than mucousy. Tommy stared blankly at the ceiling for a few minutes, tensing only when Techno shifted in his seat. Glancing over, the teen flinched violently, shaking hands moving to clutch the buttercup quilt, tugging it past his chin. Despite Tommy’s actions, Techno was practically beaming, a faint smile curving around his tusks.

“Merry Christmas!” he hummed, hoping that his unusually jovial tone didn’t startle the teen. To his delight, Tommy only furrowed his brow in confusion, eyes looking clearer than they had in days. Gone was the haze of smog clouding his irises; silver pierced him with hesitant curiosity, poking over the top of the blanket. Murmuring incoherently, Tommy propped himself up on his elbows, swivelling to drag the pillows further up the arm of his sofa. Once the teen was propped up and settled, Techno hopped to his violently green feet, ignorant to Tommy’s jolt of surprise as the boar marched to the tree. He tugged out two long, thin parcels, wrapped in thick red paper. They were adorned with white and silver snowflakes, great gold bows tied snuggly around their middles. Tommy’s eyes grew massive, bright grey easily reflecting the warm glow of the shoormlights. 

His mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, until he managed to force out a coherent “R-Rea-ally? For me?” Tommy’s voice was choked with wonder, and he gazed up at Techno in astonishment.

“Tha-ank you...” he croaked, clearing his throat. Techno nodded, not even bothering to hide his excitement because  _ Tommy was speaking _ . Chat was celebrating loudly in his head. With violently trembling fingers, Tommy carefully opened the smaller present. He slowly undid the bow, then plucked away at the sealed paper, barely damaging it. When the gift came into view, Tommy audibly gasped, eyes glittering more than Techno had seen in years.

An ornate prosthetic lay in his lap. The dark finish on the wood glimmered in the firelight, which danced about elaborate carvings and indented swirls. The socket, which would fit just under his knee over what remained of his shin, was lined with luxurious rabbit fur and silken leather. Butter-soft deer hide straps were bolted to the side by glittering iron, forming an intricate harness. The foot, which hinged separately from the body of the prosthetic in a complex joint, was carved like an animal’s paw; defined claws and toes, inlaid with gentle swirls of dark netherite. It’s overall shape was human, despite the carved design, so Tommy could still wear whatever boots he pleased. Techno watched Tommy apprehensively, panic steadily bubbling in his heart when he noted the tears pooling in the corners of the blonde’s silver gaze.

“...I can ke-ep this?” Tommy whispered, staring at Technoblade with disbelief and barely-disguised anguish. He held the prosthetic tight to his chest, as if it would vanish if he let it go.

“Of course.” Techno murmured, leaning forwards earnestly. Tommy shied away, but retained eye contact. “You won’t be able to use it while you’re healin’,  _ but _ -” he gestured to the second parcel frantically, panicking when Tommy’s eyes grew impossibly wider with despair, “-the second present should tide you over ‘til then.”

Despite his encouragement, Tommy still looked devastated. Cradling the prosthetic, Tommy nervously groped for the other present. This unwrapping was far less delicate than the first, probably because he refused to let go of his new leg; it remained tight within the grasp of his non-dominant hand, tucked halfway beneath the quilt. When Tommy saw the contents of his other present, his eyes lit up again, jaw slack with delight. Inside was a set of crutches, made of the same luxurious walnut as his new leg, ornately carved and perfectly sized. The top was padded by thick silver furs, and the grips were swaddled in richly tanned hide. Releasing his vice grip on the prosthetic with a wary glance at Techno, Tommy pulled one of the crutches upwards for closer examination. His eyes were filled with life, positively sparking in the glow from the fire. The boar allowed Chat’s glee to wash over him; their spirit was infectious.

Tommy blubbered for a moment. Tears rolled down his face, catching in the webbed scabs and trailing the path of his scars. Despite the waterworks, he looked overjoyed. A weak, wobbly smile tugged at his lips; it was faint, the corners barely turning up, but it was  _ there _ . Slowly, a slight bitterness rolled into his gaze, and the faint grin sagged back down as he turned to stare at Techno. Vague desperation had wormed into his expression, eyebrows drawn into a pleading furrow.

“Y-Y-Y…” Tommy paused, clearing his throat in a weak attempt to stop the stammering. “You’re no-ot gonna take it from me?” His voice was barely a whisper, a plea that Techno couldn’t comprehend whatsoever. “‘Cuz i-if you’re go-o-onna take it later, ju-ust take it now.” The pigman blinked dumbly for a second, mouth opening and shutting. Chat murmured anxiously, but he pushed them aside.

“I’m never gonna take ‘em from you.” His voice was soft, hands held out placadingly. “I’ll only touch ‘em if you want me to.”

Tommy stared at him, mistrust threatening to dampen the vague hope that had sparked in his colourless eyes. Eventually, the hope won out; Tommy’s wobbly sorta-smile returned, and he clutched the presents close to his chest enthusiastically. The teen continued to stare at them in wonder, fingers trailing over the grooves and inlays in blatant awe. Chat cooed softly.  _ Technopog, Technogood, Fantastic, Good work, Pogchamp, Technobrother, Technohappy. _

The piglin hybrid smiled softly; Tommy’s happiness was the best present he could’ve asked for.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The day after Tommy first wakes up, Techno's hopes for a smooth recovery are shattered. It seems as though Tommy's relatively sparse words were going to be even fewer for the unforeseeable future. He refuses help, panicking when his bandages are changed, and staring blankly at nothing most of the time. Techno fills the quiet periods with work, only rising when Chat forces him to. He finishes Tommy's presents a few days before Christmas.
> 
> On Christmas, Tommy is more lucid than he's been in days. He's ecstatic over his first present: an ornate prosthetic. Tommy is upset when he can't wear the prosthetic while he's healing, and Techno is only able to overcome the teen's despair with the second present: a set of equally pretty crutches. Tommy insists that if Techno is eventually going to take the gifts away, he should take them now and get it over with. A confused Techno assures him that he'd never touch them without Tommy's permission. Tommy believes him.
> 
> \---------------------------------------
> 
> I promised things would get better, and they are! Angst will still be present in every chapter, of course, but endless suffering gets boring. <3


	9. Cows are Cool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy really, really likes cows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No tw’s for this chapter! Pog!
> 
> Actual fluff and not as much suffering? Pog! Enjoy it while it lasts :]

Technoblade fiddled with loose screws, scrutinizing the brass hinges bolting a new hatch over the ladder to the cellar. He was knelt amongst various tools and bolts, pale sawdust contrasting harshly against the charcoal knees of his trousers. Tommy would be unstable for a long time while re-learning to walk, and another unwanted tumble into the basement wasn’t on the agenda. 

A dull, rhythmic thumping from his right drew Techno’s head upwards. Tommy stood in the doorway, crutches tucked into the armpits of a blue cable-knit jumper, the leg of his tan sweatpants tied over the end of his stump. He was positively drowning in the borrowed clothes, the drawstring on the trousers synched impossibly tight. They would’ve been large, even if Tommy was at a healthy weight. His foot was bare, still horribly skinny, but less shaky than when Tommy had first tried moving. The teen had insisted that they try out his ‘Christmas Crutches’ the minute he had stopped gawking at them on Christmas morning, and who was Techno to say no? Naturally, it had ended in disaster; Tommy’s whole body had been shaking so violently, the crutches had clattered painfully against the hardwood. He wasn’t able to hold himself up for longer than five seconds, the escapade concluding with a lot of shrieking and Tommy nearly toppling into the fire. After a few days of cautious, carefully supervised practice, the teen had built up enough strength to hobble down the hall to the bathroom. Tommy was still disturbingly quiet, often humming blandly to drown out the fire or keep himself distracted. Techno didn’t mind as much anymore, holding one-way conversations with the engaged but silent teen. It was unusual having to fill the silence; a different blonde normally did that for him.

“Hungry?” Techno asked, rising cautiously while dusting off his trousers. Tommy watched him warily, but shook his head. He shifted his weight from one crutch to the other, adjusting himself on the plush fur pads, drumming his bandaged fingers on the leather grips nervously.  _ A request _ , Chat murmured,  _ Technorequest, Technopog, Tommyask.  _ Clearing his throat anxiously, Tommy yammered incoherently before correcting himself with a cough.

“You ha-ave a cow.” the teen stated, studying the boar nervously. Techno regarded him in silent curiosity for a moment.

“...I do.” he hummed, kicking at the trapdoor idly. Tommy watched the action warily, his fingers dancing across the grips of his crutches. He was starting to tremble, a mixture of exhaustion and anxiety.

“C-C-Can,” Tommy cleared his throat hoarsely, “Can I see her?”

The request trailed off into a whisper, but Techno’s keen ears picked it up all the same. He gazed at Tommy in unguarded surprise, eyebrows shooting towards his mousey hairline. Out of all the things that Tommy decided to spend his sparse words on, it was a request to see a  _ cow? _

“I suppose so.” Techno hummed, bending to pick up loose tools and screws. Brushing sawdust into his spare hand, the boar glanced upwards to see unashamed excitement dancing across Tommy’s face. His almost-sorta-smile was back, a tightening of scarred cheeks and wrinkling of bruised eyelids. 

“I’ll have to carry you down, though.” he tacked on, keeping his face carefully impassive. Tommy faltered at that, face dropping into timid anxiety. He was shaking more violently now, ankle wobbling dangerously, but a faint glimmer of determination sparked faintly behind his clouded irises. Techno barely suppressed a proud smile.

“Okay.” he whispered, eyes round and nervous. “B-B-But I wa-ant a piggyback.”

Techno snickered at the choice of phrasing, and Chat went wild. Tommy’s eyes widened to the size of dinner plates, and he nearly collapsed with worry, his energy waning with his nerve. Staying crouched and laying the tools to the side, Techno motioned for the blonde to approach, expression soft and expectant. Lurching forwards on a dangerously unstable leg, Tommy crashed against Techno’s back, catching himself by burrowing his fingers into the shimmering emerald silk of the boar’s top. The crutches clattered to one side, and Techno took a moment to carefully lean them against the wall. With Tommy clinging to his back like a young opossum, Techno opened the trap door and descended into the cellar. It was a nerve-wracking experience, but the teen had a vice-grip on his shoulders, and Chat assured him that Tommy wouldn’t fall off with such a constricting hold. The teen remained deathly silent the whole time. 

When the bricks at the base of the ladder were removed and the pair were in Techno’s secret basement, Tommy hummed in delight. Bessie the Second had risen from a bed of hay in one corner, splotched fur shimmering healthily in the torchlight. Lowing softly in welcome, the heffer paced towards them, ears flicking curiously. Tommy scrambled off of Techno’s back without hesitation, slipping down one broad arm to be caught by the gentle bovine’s outstretched neck. The boar watched on in vague fascination; he knew  ~~his younger brother~~ Tommy liked cows, but he didn’t know that cows liked Tommy  _ back _ . Bessie the Second held Tommy up without complaint, nuzzling his clothing curiously while she led the both of them to the hay. The teen had begun babbling to her immediately, hopping along with the cow’s support; it was the loudest he’d been since Techno found him.

“...I’ll be upstairs if you need me.” Techno hummed, retreating up the ladder in a daze of confusion. Somehow, he figured the teen wouldn’t call him.

-*-

The connection that Tommy had with cows was truly an anomaly. Bessie the Second bonded to him immediately, and the teen began interrupting Techno’s breakfast preparations with hoarse pleas to go down and visit every morning. Techno would insist that he eat something first, and the blonde would inhale his bland breakfasts at record-breaking pace in order to reach his new friend. He would transport Tommy to the basement, where Bessie the Second would be waiting to receive him with just as much eagerness as the boy expressed. The pair would spend the entire morning together, and it took ages for Techno to coax Tommy back out for lunch.

The cow-less afternoons were spent refurbishing Phil’s old room, which had been empty since his move into central L’Manburg. It was across from the bathroom, incredibly spacious and well heated by the back of the ever-burning kitchen hearth. The lack of an open flame certainly made Tommy more comfortable; he lounged against the white walls, foot and stump stretched out before him, droning on enthusiastically about Bessie the Second while helping assemble new furniture. The bedroom came together nicely; a sturdy mahogany bed frame tucked against one wall, partially shielded by a towering, open bookcase, whose shelves were littered with Tommy’s meager belongings. Pictures rested against curiously shaped rocks, a dogeared journal positioned carefully next to a scratched vinyl record. Chests were mounted carefully on the south wall, and Tommy’s own personal enderchest sat peacefully next to his bed. The teen spent hours taking trinkets out of the magical container and returning them; sometimes his display shelves overflowed with items, and other times they were completely empty. A shaggy sheepskin rug stretched beneath a large scarlet recliner, which could swivel to look out either of two windows in the northwest corner. The sunshine yellow quilt was draped over the foot of the mattress, though it often migrated to the scarlet armchair, or the living room sofa.

On the sixth day of this odd new routine, Tommy flung himself from Techno’s back with an enthusiastic “Woman Henry!”

Techno choked on his own breath, spluttering while Tommy launched himself towards the cow. Bessie the Second caught Tommy with her head, butting it against his stomach affectionately and drawing a delighted squeal from the teen. His face had that almost-smile on it again, grey eyes dancing over vaguely curled lips.

“H-Heh?” the piglin coughed, resting his hand on one thigh while he tried to regain his composure. Tommy had become relatively talkative when it came to the cow, but the new name had never come up in his semi-coherent babbles before. The blonde turned to gaze at him anxiously; the pair were already lounging on the ground, the heffer’s head rested in Tommy’s lap while he trailed bandaged fingers over her face.

Stammering incoherently, Tommy tightened his fingers against Woman-Bessie-Henry the Second’s neck, gulping down panic. The cow lowed softly before casting an accusatory glance in Techno’s direction. Chat was cackling.

“I-I, she di-idn’t, she p-p-preferred-” Tommy gulped, choking on a cough, “Wo-oman Henry likes this name.” 

Techno barked out an incredulous laugh, then clamped his mouth shut guiltily when Tommy flinched, quailing behind his cow. Bessie-Henry-Woman now hid him almost completely, the top of his comically unruly mane poking out between her ears. The cow was giving the boar a look again. Tommy peeked over her head, a layer of tears distorting silver.

“...All my cows are na-amed with ‘H’s...” he whispered, murmur cracking desperately. “Harold, Harvey, Henry, M-M-Mo-Mooshro-om H-He-Henry...” Tommy stuttered violently over the final name, gaze growing hazy, and distant. Woman Henry pressed her nose against Tommy’s battered chin until the teen’s eyes cleared faintly, shifting to grope at her short fur like a lifeline. Guilt was turning the boar’s breakfast to lead. 

“...It’s a lovely name, Tommy.” Techno murmured, turning to tromp up the ladder, refusing to look at the teen’s face again. The pigman felt as if his mistake was going to eat him alive, clawing its way up his throat to throttle him. “I’m sure she likes it a lot.” 

He could feel Tommy’s baleful gaze upon his back, but Technoblade resolutely didn’t say another word.

-*-

Woman Henry was going to have to leave the basement at some point. Techno figured that having easier access to her would get Tommy up and about. Now that his bedroom was finished, the teen had nothing to do but sit around or hang out with Woman Henry. When he wasn’t with the cow, he was chatting about her; Woman Henry this, Woman Henry that. Chat loved it. The teen had improved significantly in the month he’d been at the cabin; he had finally lost the unhealthy gauntness in his face, and his wounds were all closed in delicate pink and silver scars, though Tommy refused to leave them unbandaged. He didn’t flinch whenever Techno entered a room, and his hazy spells were growing fewer and farther between. Occasionally the boar was awoken by a thump late in the night. He’d rush down the ladder to find Tommy writhing on the floor, face contorted in silent screams while tearing at his bandaged skin as though it burned him. On those nights, it helped if the teen piggybacked down the ladder to see his cow; it quieted his sobs faster.

On one bright winter morning, Techno clomped down the ladder to find Tommy already seated at the table, crutches propped up at his side. His fingers drummed against the corkboard placemats absently, and when he spotted Techno’s incredulous face he gave an anxious sorta-smile. When Techno returned it, dropping down the last few rungs to land smoothly on the hardwood, Tommy visibly relaxed; sometimes, assurances for mundane actions were needed by the blonde. Techno didn’t know why, but he indulged them without question.

“We should bring Woman Henry upstairs.” the piglin hybrid hummed, brushing stray hairs from his face while he rooted through the pantry in search of breakfast. “She can stay with Carl.” When Technoblade turned around, ingredients in hand, Tommy was positively glowing. His sorta-almost-smile had cracked around the middle, showing a sliver of teeth. The boar’s heart soared, and Chat cheered proudly.  _ Tommysmile, Tommygrin, Tommyhappy, Technopog, Pogchamp! _ Closing the last chest with a sharp click - which Tommy barely flinched at - Techno set about making his most elaborate breakfast yet.

Half an hour later, the rustic kitchen was filled with rich aromas; herbs and spices swirled with sausage, soup, and baking pancake. The clatter of pans drowned out the sound of the fire, and Tommy seemed to appreciate it; he was watching Techno work with keen silver eyes, chattering softly about how much Woman Henry would love the snow. Techno remained relatively quiet, humming his agreements or prompting more conversation from the teen. It seemed that having a creature to talk to that wouldn’t talk back had been good for him, as his daily word limit was growing exponentially. Sweeping around with a bowl of soup for Tommy and a heaping stack of flapjacks and sausages for himself, Techno tightened his lips in a small smile as he handed the bowl over. Tommy took it in unsteady hands, laying it before himself with poorly concealed anxiety. Techno thought nothing of it, setting his plate on the cork placemat across from the blonde as he slumped down in a chair and dug in. He ate peacefully for a minute before lifting his head, regarding Tommy’s behavior with concerned fascination. 

Close proximity during the meal was a problem they hadn’t encountered before. So far, the teen had eaten alone, either on the sofa in the living room or the recliner in his bedroom. Tommy ate with a nervous fervour, hunched over his bowl, gaze flickering up between bites to gauge Techno’s expression. The arm that wasn’t feeding him was rested a few centimeters from the bowl, a trembling barrier between Techno and the soup. He had the same air of a stray mutt, anxiously guarding scraps. It made the boar’s heart constrict, his lips tightening in a grimace subconsciously. When Tommy next glanced up he froze. His spoon hovered halfway to his lips, venison tumbling back into the bowl and splashing broth on Tommy’s scarred chin. The teen didn’t notice, eyeing Techno with blatant fear. Techno carefully schooled his face. 

“...I…” the pigman paused, gesturing uselessly with one hand. He wasn’t sure what to say. Tommy watched the hand for a moment, before turning his gaze back to Techno’s face. “I’m not going to take your food, Tommy.” He hoped his voice was assuring; the urge to punch something was suddenly very hard to ignore.

“Even though I…” Tommy croaked, pausing to wipe his chin with the back of his bandaged hand.

“...E-even though I eat, fu-unny?” he finished slowly, hands shaking worse than ever, grey eyes round behind his unruly, singed fringe.

“Eat however you’d like. I don’t want your soup. I have a  _ proper _ breakfast; Pancakes.” Techno gruffed, relaxing into the safety of apathetic jokes, unable to decipher what Tommy’s words implied. Stabbing into the fluffy flapjack on his plate, Technoblade made a show of slicing a massive, syrupy square from the mess and popping it into his mouth. Chat snickered. Tommy stared at Techno as though he’d grown a second head, disbelief and mistrust swirling in his clouded gaze, but eventually resumed his eating. His arm remained firmly between the two of them. Techno didn’t comment on it.

After a tense brunch and a silent clean-up, Techno piggybacked Tommy to the cellar. The teen perched on top of a barrel, watching the pigman uproot his pristine floor with keen curiosity. Some carefully sliced trunks from the spruce forest nearby had been tethered together into a sturdy ramp, which currently trailed out the open doorway into the snow. Woman Henry peered up at them with interest, and Tommy filled her in on what was going on.

“He’s diggin’ up ‘is own f-flo-oors, Woman Henry. Just for you.” the blonde explained, fiddling with the fur on his crutches. They were resting against his bandaged knee, hooked over the stump. Tommy raised one hand to brush his singed fringe from his face; the rest of his unruly mane had been pulled back into a short ponytail, tied up with a chord of hide, loose ends sticking out everywhere. It was a style he had adopted recently, no longer hiding behind his unruly locks. His ears were on display, unbandaged in all their ferally elvish glory. Techno snorted softly in amusement, turning to grapple with the makeshift ramp. Tommy bounced with glee, leaning forwards to watch as the boar maneuvered the logs into the gap.

With the ramp firmly in place, Tommy called to Woman Henry enthusiastically. The cow obliged without hesitation, tromping up the ramp towards the teen with a gentle lowe. The logs sagged faintly, but if the bovine noticed she didn’t react. Tommy was blabbering with glee, words a mixture of incoherent noises and excited english. Techno’s jaw was slack in unashamed surprise, and Chat was tittering away with as much enthusiasm as Tommy. Groping for his crutches, Tommy slid clumsily from the barrel and tromped through the open door, Woman Henry hot on his heels. It was a beautiful day; the sun glimmered off of the snowdrifts, slanting it’s way between the boughs of towering pine trees to play dappled shadows on the untouched tundra. Fence posts poked out of pristine powder, sectioning off empty summer farmland and Carl’s field, which was pressed against the side of the house next to the cellar door. Tommy struggled through the snow, his crutches catching on the drifts and breath billowing, but Woman Henry never let him fall. Techno leant against the doorframe, watching the teen lead his bovine friend to the pen. Carl raised his head from the inside of a heated stable, watching as Tommy maneuvered the gate open with one hand and led Woman Henry into the paddock, chattering nonsense happily. A proud smile settled on Techno’s face. Things were finally looking up for them.

Across the sea, thousands of kilometers away, a father leaves the funeral of his second son.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tommy approaches Technoblade one morning, asking to see his cow. Though confused, he obliges, piggybacking the teen down to the basement. Bessie the Second and Tommy bond immediately, and Tommy becomes more talkative. Time not spent with the cow is used to refurnish Phil's old room, which became empty after his move to Central L'Manburg. One morning, Tommy reveals that he has renamed Bessie the Second; she is now Woman Henry. 
> 
> Techno suggest they move Woman Henry outside, to stay with Carl. Tommy is ecstatic, and the pair have their first close-proximity meal together. Tommy has peculiar, defensive eating habits, and worries that Techno will steal his food because of the way that he eats. Techno assures him that he doesn't want to take his breakfast, and the pair go down to bring Woman Henry outside.
> 
> At the same time, Phil leaves his youngest son's funeral.
> 
> \-----------------------------------
> 
> WOAH, WOAH! YOU GUYS ARE CRAZY!! Nearly 12000 hits, and almost 1100 kudos?! I can't thank you enough. I'm just happy you enjoy the block men suffering. :']


	10. Intercontinental Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil’s Christmas takes an unexpected turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MAJOR TW!!//// Implied suicide, death/funerals, and brief mentions of gore.
> 
> Important: LOADS of canon divergence starting in this chapter. Be aware.
> 
> Bouta pull ye old switcheroo on you and throw a totally random POV into the mix. But it isn’t totally random, because it’s high time that I shed some light on the outside world. This doesn’t pick up where the other chapter left off, but it catches up.
> 
> You’ve been having too much fluff lately. Have pain :]

Phil wandered through the streets of L’Manburg, gazing at the Christmas decorations in merry fascination. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve, and the older man was thoroughly enjoying the atmosphere that the nation’s young President had created that year. Strands of shroomlights twisted about buildings and lamps, peppering the evening gloom like captured stars. Jewel coloured ribbons fluttered on signposts, thick garlands swept along wooden bannisters, and massive candy-canes towered over the streets. An astonishingly large evergreen tree glittered over the rooftops, decked with glass ornaments the size of pigs, lights bigger than Phil’s head, and topped with a glittering diamond star. A skiff of snow clung to the edges of Central L’Manburg’s boardwalks, clumping on the ice that had spread across the lake’s surface and stuffed into the cracks of the lumber. Holly bushes crowded the unflooded portions of the crater, wrapped in twinkling lights of their own, hiding a history of suffering behind dazzling colour. Shoppers ducked in and out of cafe’s and bakery’s, laden with last-minute presents and treats. Despite the biting chill, the nation felt warm. Philza had a green-and-white striped scarf wrapped loosely about his face, pulled over his red and runny nose; a few months away from the tundra had made him strangely unaccustomed to winter weather, especially while residing in Dream’s temperate S.M.P. Phil intended to make the most of the jolly decorations while he was here, as he planned to leave L’Manburg the following morning. If he travelled through the night, he could reach Technoblade’s cabin for Christmas lunch.

He was admiring the festive window display in an ice-cream parlor when he heard the scream. It was haunting, the undiluted melody of heartbreak and fear and pure agony. Phil whipped up the street without hesitation, his ornate black-and-white cloak billowing behind him like a magpie’s wings. Vaulting weightlessly up the ice-slicked stairs leading to the Nether portal, Phil rushed towards a small form. They were hunched in front of the black archway, poisonously purple light dancing on the creases of their rumpled suit, shifting as the figure pounded the ground with bloodied fists. When they raised their head in another shaky wail, Phil finally registered who it was.

Tubbo reached his small hands forwards, groping for the cloaked man with agonized blubbers. His face was constricted in pain, soot-stained and tracked with tears. Phil closed the distance, gathering the kid into his cloak with a suffocating hug.

“Hey, shh… It’s okay, Mate. You’re okay…” Phil tried to assure Tubbo as best he could, smoothing the teen’s chestnut mop in assurance. Tubbo only sobbed harder, trying and failing to blubber out comprehensible sentences. The brunette choked over words, coughing through another violent wail. He lacked the strength to rise, ribs heaving as he struggled to breath around steadily hoarsening screams.

“H-H-H-He’s go-o-one!” Tubbo finally choked, trailing into a wail, clutching at Phil’s shimmering cloak as wretched sobs wracked his body. A few others had gathered by now; Vice President Quackity had rushed up the stairs, beanie lopsided and shoulders heaving, loudly demanding answers. Niki and Fundy had arrived together, dusted with flour, shouting panicked questions and approaching the pair with concern. Phil rubbed Tubbo’s back, casting the others a glance that conveyed confusion and fear.

“...Mate, who’s-”

“TOMMY!” the young President wailed, cutting off the blonde with a hiccuping wail. Everyone froze at that. Panic began to cloud the air, settling over the portal like a noxious gas. A few citizens of Dream’s S.M.P had arrived at that point; George leant against a pillar, half hidden in shadow, a concerned frown on his face. Karl shifted his weight at George’s side, his own mouth wobbling dangerously as sympathetic tears clouded his eyes. Phil felt anxiety writhing in his chest, threatening to choke him. Pushing his bucket hat out of his face, the fatherly man cleared his throat. It felt like gargling nails.

“...What’s wrong with Tommy? Where’s he gone?”

Tubbo choked and spluttered for a moment, before fixing Phil with puffy blue eyes brimming with heartbreak. His lower lip trembled violently while he whispered-

“He jumped.”

-*-

It took an uncomfortably long time to plan Tommy’s funeral. Nobody wanted to come to a consensus on how to go about the burial, because that meant fully accepting that the rowdy blonde was gone. Nobody wanted to believe that the boisterous, charismatic teen wasn’t going to simply appear, scrounging a victory with nothing but his heart and saving the day. There was nothing to be saved. Tubbo locked himself up in his office, organizing the funeral and throwing himself into secretive paperwork. He had grown thin, sleepless nights bruising his lids, rich blue irises dim and hazy with a fog of grief. Interventions were met with crying and violent protests; Quackity was currently sporting an impressively black eye, obtained while trying to drag Tubbo out of his office by force. Phil had sent the news to Techno through their comm-stones, but didn’t expect to hear a reply; the boar had cracked his while fishing a few weeks back, and likely hadn’t replaced it yet. With everyone occupied with trying to help Tubbo, Phil worked on the funeral where he could.

Smog swirled about his legs, curling off the shimmering fabric of his cloak and toying with the edges of his striped bucket hat. The collar of his snug turtleneck, woven of delicate black wool, felt uncomfortably tight in the oppressive heat of the Nether. The glow of magma danced on the dark leather of Phil’s ankle boots, thick heels clicking against cobblestone. The bridge he walked was crumbling away, claimed by the molten lava below it; obsidian supports were the only things holding the rocky monstrosity upright, curling in ragged arches, blasted apart by the demons of the Underworld. Phil’s heels smoked faintly when they hit netherrack, cracking soundly against the crumbling red slate. The portal to Logstedshire glowed eerily ahead of him, barely containing the toxic curtain of light fluttering in its decrepit arch. The blonde tried to force down guilty bile curling in his throat, stepping through the purple curtain before he could hesitate. 

They needed something to bury besides an empty casket. He was going to find that something. 

Phil squinted against the sudden light of the Overworld, coughing into his fist. He could vaguely make out the green of the tropical coast, tarnished and blackened. The air in Logstedshire left a tang of woodsmoke on his tongue, bitter and clogged with the reek of decay. When his hawklike gaze finally adjusted to the light, Phil stifled a gag. Everything was smoking; great clouds of grey billowed from craters in the ground, catching on mounds of debris and swirling in putrid wisps to dissipate in the joyfully blue sky. What wasn’t burnt was dilapidated, crumbling in on itself. Tommy’s Christmas tree was rotting, slumped heavily to one side. Shards of smashed ornaments sparkled across the turf, caught between heaps of stone and creeping wildflowers. Wisps of smoke-blackened tarp fluttered at the edges of one gnarled hole, flicking dying embers into the breeze. Picking his way carefully amongst piles of rubble and dangerously sharp lumber, Phil gazed into the biggest crater, blinking away tears. It had the diameter of a football pitch, and was several metres deep. Stone teeth prodded through explosion-wrenched earth and clumps of smoldering foliage, devouring the place where Logsted once stood. Most of the fortress-style walls were burnt away entirely; what remained leaned away from the jagged stone maw, blown backwards, their rope tethers singed into blackened vines. A skiff of murky water clouded the bottom, muddled with ash and charcoal and old blood. Ghostbur’s house was mostly gone, a skeleton of mouldered scaffolding crumpled halfway into the pit. Husks of blue plaster floated atop the clay-brown water, drifting around destroyed items; the remnants of a chest was collapsed over broken bottles, the heads of iron pickaxes poked from the rubble, and a half-melted bell smoked faintly. A scarlet lump lay in a thick cluster of flowers growing along the cliff’s lip, multicoloured mushrooms sprouting along splayed legs and tufted flanks. It took Phil a moment to realize it was a Mooshroom, burned and butchered. Its head was missing.

A long, thin shadow stretched across the pit, blanketing the singed treetops and obscuring smoke. Phil’s gaze followed the shadow painfully slowly, roving across the rotting remains of Logstedshire until they settled on the base of a scaffolded tower. His eyes widened with dawning horror as they followed it upwards, skittering across hastily nailed planks and hanging dirt. The tower swayed peacefully in the wind, displacing thin trails of cloying smoke, stretching up to tickle patronisingly white clouds. Phil gulped, walking towards it until he stumbled over a dip in the ground. Glancing towards the catch, the father held back a shuddering sob. A large strip of cloth swayed in the wind, switching from white to ruby in a fashion that was so _indisputably_ Tommy. It was flecked with gore at one edge, like scarlet mould, and the stone around it was caked with dried blood. Phil sunk to his knees in the rugged crater, cradling the scrap in violently trembling fingers.

All that remained of Tommy was a bit of his shirt.

-*-

Along with the bit of cloth, Phil returned with a worn-yet-cared-for record player, the needle blunt from use. Quackity had stared at them blearily before nodding, his face contorted into anguished acceptance. Tubbo had refused to look.

Tommy’s mostly-empty casket was buried at the edge of L’Manburg, atop the sweeping limestone cliffs of the western border. Dream made his first appearance in weeks to watch the attendees arrive, standing in the shade of a stunted oak, his smiling mask glinting. His presence wasn't welcome; a sobbing Quackity had cracked Dream soundly across the face before the taller could react, splintering the edges of the flat ivory mask. Fundy had pulled the shouting Vice President away, and Dream had departed with a few biting words in their direction and a swish of his cropped cloak. Ranboo had guided the pair to their seats, multihued face screwed up and shoulders heavy, burdened with the guilt of being the last one to see Tommy alive. Tubbo didn’t notice a thing; he leant heavily against a silent Niki in the front row, staring at a simple slab of white stone, quiet sobs shaking his shoulders. The tombstone was perched at the edge of a bluff, displacing a worn-out bench that two best friends used to share every evening. Winter wheatgrass swayed around the stone in the biting wind, glinting white-gold with frost. It faced the sunset, inscribed simply and otherwise undecorated.

_Tommy Innit_

_xx04-xx21_

_Forever selfless, and hopelessly missed_

Phil stood at the edge of the path, dark cloak fluttering about his ankles. He couldn’t watch them for much longer; his stomach was rolling, and his teary eyes were pressed underneath a furrowed brow. How _dare_ they cry over his youngest son? They had neglected him, driven him away in favour of others, shunted his goodwill until crippling loneliness took him. Tugging his bucket hat further over his eyes with a scowl, the father disappeared down the hill, cloak whipping behind him as he went.

-*-

Phil was gone before the sun rose the following morning, necessities packed, stable empty, and a neatly scrawled note pinned to his door. Quackity was busy reading a very different note; a whole set of them, arranged on Tubbo’s suddenly empty desk. His office was deserted, belongings gone and sleeping quarters cleared out. Details surrounding accounts, state funding, and future plans were carefully sealed in dense brown envelopes. His formal resignation lay at the centre of the table, handing control to his Vice President until the election scheduled a year or so down the line, and promising support in the new President’s endeavors. Tubbo’s chicken scratch was bad at best, and his grief had made it barely legible. Every phrase was carefully impersonal, despite the dried tears distorting ink and wrinkling the paper. The exception was the final line on his resignation, scratched clumsily just above his signature, slanting towards the blood-red seal adorning the bottom right corner.

  
_I have poured everything into this country. I have nothing left to give._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two days before Christmas, Tubbo comes out of the nether portal, claiming that Tommy is dead. It takes ages to plan the funeral, mainly because finalizing things means accepting that Tommy is gone. Phil goes to Logstedshire to find it in ruins. All he can find of Tommy is a piece of his shirt, which he brings back to be buried. Tommy's mostly-empty casket is buried where his bench used to stand. Phil leaves the following morning, and Quackity finds Tubbo's formal resignation in his vacant office.  
> \-------------------------------------------------  
> Voila! The mystery of L'Manburg's reaction is revealed!! I hope I did the ideas in my head justice, and made it angsty enough for you. I didn't wanna dwell on it too much, but there was some necessary canon divergence that would've been a pain to explain through future dialogue.
> 
> Somebody was inquiring about a way to tag me in fan art!! First off: POGCHAMP?!!? Like HOLY MOLY that's incredible!!! If you're wanting to do that, my MCYT Twitter is here:
> 
> https://twitter.com/junebug_113
> 
> Stay cool, kids :] <3


	11. Walk Before you Fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy tries out his prosthetic, and falls on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No tw’s for this chapter! 
> 
> You guys were really worried about Tubbo, so I decided to throw a bit of him into this chapter!! Other than that, we’re back to the cabin, which is pretty groovy.

The salty air coming off the northwestern sea was cold. It pulled gently at Tubbo’s brown, wool-lined corduroy jacket, and ruffled his baby-blue overalls. Grey light rimmed the edges of the pale cliffs at Tubbo’s back, casting long shadows over the gentle slopes trailing to the ocean. A heavy, early-morning chill fogged his breath, frosting his lashes and the edge of his fluffy fringe. Adjusting the wooden beehives in his grasp, Tubbo sniffled softly.

“It’s okay, Tubbo.” A gentle voice drifted from behind, and the brunette glanced over his shoulder with a watery smile. Ranboo held the reins of both their steeds, trailing in Tubbo’s wake, his suit jacket replaced by a pinstriped jumper. Clementine, Tubbo’s stalky pinto mare, was on his left. She was sure-footed on the dark, craggy moor, despite being laden with chests and beehives. Blueboo bumped his broad head against Ranboo’s right shoulder impatiently; the enderborn’s blue-roan draft was completely unaffected by Tubbo’s luggage, and obviously wanted them to pick up the pace. Ranboo ignored him, his heterochromatic eyes fixed solely on the short ex-President.

“...Yeah, it’ll be okay.” Tubbo eventually hummed, croaky and sad. Ranboo nodded, and the pair continued on in silence for a time, the clop of hooves ringing against the bluffs. They made for a pile of cut lumber, stacked on a strip of flat grass adjacent to the beginnings of a broad stone foundation. Ranboo had started on Tubbo’s project in the days leading up to the funeral; he was the only one let-in on the other teen’s retirement plan, and was eager to help.

“Is that Phil?” Ranboo barked, breaking the silence and speeding up to walk next to the brunette. Tubbo followed his gaze, watching a dark figure on an equally dark horse make their way along the grey-pebbled beach in the distance. 

“It is.” Tubbo hummed, adjusting the beehives once more while picking his way around a rough limestone outcrop.

“Where do you think he’s going?”

Tubbo paused, watching Phil for a moment. “Away,” he rasped, sniffling. “-just like me.”

-*-

Weak morning sunlight filtered into the kitchen, glancing off the edges of shining iron pans and steel utensils. Technoblade whisked around the room, sporting a cream apron embroidered with sunflowers to protect a snug black button-down, which was undone to his collarbones. Tommy was outside with Woman Henry, launching himself about in a flurry of snowflakes, which were falling from the charcoal clouds rolling overhead. A blizzard was coming, and the boar had let Tommy out to goof off with his cow before the vicious winter storm trapped them inside. Setting two plates laden with toast, jam, sausages, and fruit on the table, Technoblade wiped his hands on a floral towel, marching to the front door. A gust of wind blasted into the boar’s face when the door swung open, snowflakes slicing across his skin to settle on the kitchen floor. Techno stuck his head out, rosey-pink hair lashed about by the gale, squinting as he searched for his blonde housemate. He wasn’t hard to find.

Tommy seemed unfazed by the horrid conditions. The teen was making a snowman, knelt in the steadily deepening snow with his crutches nearby. The legs of his grey cotton trousers were black with melted water, tied firmly at the end of his stump and tucked into an oversized leather boot. A massive wool sweater fluttered about his gloved hands, pine green covering the white of his undershirt and bandages. Tommy’s stumpy ponytail bobbed in the gale, loose ends whipping around a navy beanie, which fell over his brow and concealed his gnarled ears. Woman Henry stood next to him, nudging the snow about with her nose while Tommy chastised her for messing with his building materials.

“Breakfast, Tommy!” the boar called, tugging his braid out of his face. Tommy whipped around, smoky eyes crinkled in a sorta-smile, nose and cheeks red from the cold.

“Comin’!” he croaked, weak shout nearly lost to the wind. The teen gathered up his crutches, and Woman Henry helped him up with her head. Hauling his way through the snow, Tommy paused to wave at his cow, who was wandering towards the shelter of the heated stables to hunker down with Carl. She lowed back softly.

Tommy clunked up the stairs, wobbling in the wind as he slipped under Techno’s arm into the heat of the cabin. Slush dripped from his clothes, melting off his shoulders into massive puddles.

“Go get changed. Don’t drip all over my floor.” Techno gruffed, though the undertone of familial teasing broadened the sorta-smile on the teen’s face.

“Got-gotcha.” Tommy stuttered, maneuvering his way down the hallway towards his room, leaving a trail of water in his wake. Techno threw a ratty towel on the ground, pushing it around with his foot to clean up what he could of the water before settling down in his seat. Shovelling marmalade-laden toast into his mouth, he watched the slowly darkening tundra out of the window. It was going to be a long few days inside.

Tommy emerged when Techno moved onto his second piece of toast, floundering in tan sweatpants and a ruby turtleneck. The sweater would’ve been snug on the boar, but it draped loosely around Tommy’s twig-like arms, and the normally fitted collar hung low about his slender neck. The teen had finally graduated from soup, able to keep heavier meals down, and it was starting to show; Tommy was still unhealthily thin, but emaciation was like a distant memory. A lithe, hungry muscle was starting to return to his shoulders and press at his bandaged limbs. Lowering himself into his chair with only slight hesitance, the teen dug into his food, one trembling arm circling the plate and tucking it into his chest. Techno nodded a greeting, shovelling a breakfast sausage into his mouth.

“I think you’re ready.” Techno hummed after a moment, breaking the content silence before crunching down on a strawberry. Tommy gazed up at him under his fringe, busy with a piece of toast, grey glittering curiously. The boar stared at Tommy for a moment, paused to swallow, and promptly realised that he had to elaborate.

“For the leg.” Techno grabbed another strawberry, and when he met Tommy’s eyes again the teen was slack-jawed with shock, his toast completely forgotten.

“...Really?” Tommy croaked, vaguely breathless. His colourless eyes shone, and the corners of his lips were pulled up into a disbelieving smile. “You’re no-not pullin’ my leg?”

“You’d fall over if I pulled your leg.” Techno snorted, setting his empty plate aside. Tommy gurgled excitedly for a moment, genuine glee buzzing in his bandaged hands. Snatching up his crutches, the blonde rose with surprising speed and strength, vaulting himself from the table and disappearing behind Edward into the western hallway. 

Techno rose from his seat, a proud smile on his face. Chat chattered wildly in his head, their excitement building on his own.  _ Technoproud, Technogood, Tommywalk, Walkinnit, Leg time baby, Technopog, E, Tommypog. _ Setting their plates into the sink, the piglin hybrid leant against the butcher's block counter, watching the hallway patiently. After a long moment, the rapid rhythm of Tommy’s crutches returned, and the teen came barreling around the corner. His prosthetic was held clumsily in one hand, grasp shared between the grip of his crutch and the walnut leg. Techno raised one eyebrow at the  _ other _ new addition, a silent question that Tommy pointedly ignored. A ratty, blood-stained neckerchief was looped around his throat, the singed ends poking out over his collarbones. The boar recognized the lime-green fabric, though it was far feebler than it had once been, and worn in a drastically different style.

The prosthetic landed on the cleared table with a quiet thump, and the blonde plopped himself into his seat, eagerness dancing in his marred face. Techno sighed softly, a light smile tugging around his small tusks, wandering forwards to fiddle with the harness. The pigman explained the intricacies of the prosthetic, and Tommy watched him with rapt attention, leant forwards and gripping his seat.

“You’ve gotta synch it tight, or it’ll fall off.” Techno gestured to the prosthetic, and Tommy extended trembling fingers, cradling the prosthetic in awe. Carefully, he set it on the floor, rolling up the leg of his borrowed trousers to uncover his swaddled stump. Setting the bandaged remains of his shin into the padded socket, Tommy fiddled with the harnesses, following the boar’s instructions clumsily. Eventually it was secured, butter-soft leather belting the wood to his body. The blonde extended his leg, awestruck at the way the firelight danced along the netherite inlays and joints. 

Without warning, the teen leapt to his feet, wooden claw thumping soundly against the wood. Tommy was immediately unbalanced, his lanky arms pinwheeling wildly and his voice rose in a croaking shriek. Before Techno could react, the teen overcompensated, falling forwards to land in a painful heap on the hardwood floor. The piglin hybrid grimaced, moving from his place to offer Tommy a hand. His burn-reddened nose was beginning to bruise, and his lower lip was split. The teen eyed the hand with his usual wariness, but eventually gripped Techno’s calloused palm, hauling himself upwards. Balancing on his real leg, Tommy stared at the prosthetic, carefully setting the carved foot onto the ground. The netherite joint provided life-like resistance, flexing as the blonde shifted the pressure from its toes to its heel. He wobbled, horribly unstable, gripping Techno’s hand and forearm.

“You’ll still need your crutches for a while, Tommy.” the pigman chuckled, holding Tommy up while he bent his knee experimentally, pulling the prosthetic upwards. The wood swooped tentatively through the air, much like his old leg would’ve; due to what had been amputated, the only control he lacked was over the claw-shaped foot.

Humming softly in acknowledgement, Tommy released Techno’s arms, wobbling forwards to catch himself on the table. Tucking his crutches under his arms, Tommy slouched into the more open area near the door, testing weight on his walnut leg. His walk was more of a peg-legged limp, unused to the new presence strapped to his stump, but it was something. Despite the disastrous first run, Tommy’s eyes glowed, and his lips were cracked in a wide sorta-smile despite the uncomfortable split.

“I-I’m movin’, Technoblade. L-L-Look at my moves.” Tommy tucked his chin into the ties of his dingy neckerchief, gazing at his leg while he hobbled around the table. “T-Th-The women won’t be able to keep their ‘ands off m-me.”

Techno barked out a surprised laugh, and Tommy pulled his colourless gaze away from the prosthetic to watch the pigman anxiously. His apprehension soon faded, smile growing slightly; Techno’s shoulders were bouncing with poorly-suppressed laughter, and his almond eyes twinkled with mirth. Chat was celebrating noisily, dancing about in his head. Tommy had finally, after over a month in the cabin, cracked a joke. An _ actual, Tommy Innit-style  _ joke _. _

“They’ll be climbin’ all over the house. I won’t be able to keep ‘em out.” Techno added, a grin tugging around his pale tusks. Clapping Tommy about the shoulder fondly - eliciting only a slight jolt from the teen - Techno turned towards the dishes. “It’ll be a hoard, Tommy.”

The blonde grinned wider, ponytail bobbing as he thumped his way about the kitchen experimentally. The blizzard pounding against the house did nothing to lower their spirits.

-*-

The storm raged over the tundra, hurling itself against the windows and wailing between the trees. The world was colourless and hazy, shadowed by mist and an unrelenting flurry of snowflakes. It had been two days since it started, and it refused to let up, burying the fence posts and blustering over the cliffs. Techno was currently battling his way from the cellar to the stable, heavy blue cloak nearly ripped from his shoulders by the baleful gale, a sack of feed tucked against his chest. Golden light filtered into the snowflakes from the sputtering lantern held in one gloved fist, barely puncturing the gloom of the hateful blizzard. The pigman had forced off his human form before entering the storm, pulling the Boar forwards to combat the weather. The wind ruffled his rose-grey mane, tearing at the roping braid down his back and shrieking around his massive, curving tusks. Dark eyes glinted behind a heavy brow, the lantern’s light turning them scarlet. White clouds billowed from his scarred snout, pulled away from flared nostrils and lost to the night. Chat clammered violently inside his head, raging against his skull, demanding violence and hate while pressing Techno’s own thoughts to the side. The hulking, pale Boar gave them power, and he  _ hated _ it. He hated the way this form changed the thousands of voices in his head, and the bloodlust that itched his cloven fingers and taughtened his broadened muscles. Techno could feel Tommy’s nervous gaze on his sweeping shoulders, but refused to acknowledge it; the last time the blonde had seen the mighty Boar, it had told him to die like a hero.

Pushing his way into the heated stable, Techno relaxed, thick fur and triangular face retracting. He could feel the longing for violence retreating with it, leaving his bones heavy and legs shaking. The Boar exhausted him, especially when it was drawn forwards by force; it reared its head on its own, only when times were dire. Narrowed shoulders sagging, the piglin hybrid allowed the sac of feed to drop to the stone at his feet, leaning against the heavy door and closing his eyes against a throbbing headache. Chat had finally quieted, murmuring half-hearted apologies. Groaning softly, Techno squinted into the stable. Carl and Woman Henry lay near the side of the house, their backs pressed to the warm stone, hay clinging to their coats. Carl rose smoothly to his hooves, which clopped sharply against the stone as he approached. Woman Henry remained where she lay, chocolate eyes unreadable. Bending to scoop up the feed, the pigman wandered towards the trough with Carl, dumping the grain inside.

Once the animals were fed and watered, Techno battled his way through the storm without the Boar’s aid; the wind was now at his back, and he didn’t feel like listening to Chat’s chants for blood again. Slumping into the cellar, Techno slammed the doors shut and bolted them. While he shrugged off his soaked boots and snow-coated cloak, the click of the trapdoor echoed throughout the stone room. Techno glanced upwards, almond meeting anxious grey. Tommy had stuck his head through the trapdoor, gazing at the boar upside-down, singed fringe falling off his forehead.

“Y-Y-You good, Big Man?” he croaked, gaze less keen than it normally was, and nervousness tightening his dark brows.

“All good.” Techno hummed, assuring Tommy and answering his underlying question. The blonde immediately relaxed, his mouth softening into the almost-smile that never left his face anymore. Despite being trapped inside, unable to see Woman Henry, Tommy had been in incredibly high spirits; his movements on the prosthetic were becoming smoother and stronger by the day, and Techno felt safe leaving him unattended while wearing the limb. Tommy could attach and remove it without guidance, and had taken to limping about the house for the sake of it, the rhythmic thump of his claw-shaped foot paired with content humming.

Tommy’s head vanished, calling out something indiscernible as he retreated to the kitchen. Techno joined him not long after, finding the teen perched on top of the table, a loaf of bread clasped in one bandaged hand. Tommy raised his snack in a greeting, grinning anxiously around a bite and swinging his legs lazily. Techno snorted and bobbed his head, hanging his soaked socks over the fire and pulling on a fresh pair. As the boar moved to tuck his boots near the front door, three sharp knocks rapped against the dark wood. The air in the house froze solid; the chill of fear emanating off of Tommy rivaled the blizzard raging outside. 

Before either of them could react, the door swung open, blasting the kitchen with a frigid gale. Techno impulsively moved to block Tommy from view, staring at the figure with panicked rage. Chat, who had been politely quiet since the Boar, suddenly howled in mounting chaos.  **_Stranger danger, Blood for the Blood God, I know him, Technokill, Wait that’s not a stranger._ ** As Techno stared at the shuddering figure, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“Phil?”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ranboo helps Tubbo move his luggage and beehives to a new building site on the northwest coast, on the craggy moor beneath the cliffs. They spot Phil, who is also leaving L'Manburg.
> 
> In the tundra, Tommy builds a snowman with Woman Henry as Techno makes breakfast. A blizzard is building. Tommy tries out his prosthetic leg, and puts on his lime green bandana as a neckerchief. Tommy falls flat on his face, but after a few minutes he's up and moving around. Tommy cracks his first joke, and Chat is overjoyed.
> 
> Techno battles his way head-first into the storm to feed Carl and Woman Henry. He takes on the form of the Boar to combat the storm, which makes Tommy anxious. Tommy checks in on him when he returns, and Techno assures him that everything is alright. Tommy is eating a snack on the table when the door is thrown open by a stranger in the night.
> 
> \----------------------------
> 
> I am honestly so shocked at how close a few of you got at guessing some of the content in this chapter. Somebody even said something about Tommy sitting on a table, and I was like: Excuse me??? I've had this draft for over a week?? and I was utterly bamboozled.
> 
> ALSO: Would you guys be interested in having a map of the world? I've been drawing some mock-ups for reference while I write, but it might be neat to have. Lemme know what you think.


	12. MAP POG

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THIS ISN'T AN UPDATE. IT'S A MAP.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At least a couple of you wanted to see a map. I threw together a few of my smaller sketches and made one big one. I might make more specific ones and add them here later, like one for the S.M.P and one for the Antarctic Continent.
> 
> NOTE: Something happened to the original map chapter. I don't know how but it got deleted?? Probably something I did by accident.
> 
> The next actual update is tomorrow!!! :] <3


	13. Papa's Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil pays the cabin a long-overdue visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MAJOR TW!!//// Mentions of Suicide, heavy dissociation/panic, descriptions of old injuries.
> 
> The adoptive Watson family is coming together again!! There’s lots of dialogue in this one, which isn’t normally my style but it’s necessary here.

Technoblade regarded the trembling man in his doorway, eyebrows raised and mouth slightly agape. The boar had been so wrapped up in caring for Tommy, he’d completely forgotten about the Christmas plans with his old mentor. Said mentor now stood in his doorway, a heavy satchel slung over one shoulder, his shimmering cloak ripping in the wind. Phil Watson looked like shit; his eyes had a hollow sadness to them, and his normally soft face was hardened with stress and pain. Snow clung to his whole body, frosting the scruff of strawberry-blonde adorning his jaw and clinging to one side of his bucket hat. When the boar opened his mouth to say something, Phil cut him off.

“I’ve got… bad news.” Phil hummed. Techno stepped to one side, allowing the weather-beaten man into the house. His brow furrowed.

“Somethin’ happen in L’Manburg?” he gruffed, watching as Phil slipped off his ice-coated boots and heft his pack to the floor. The older man pursed his lips into a frown, pale eyes glazed with suppressed grief.

“No, not… exactly.” Phil began, removing his bucket hat and running his fingers through thick golden locks, which fell about his scruffy chin in a lank, wet sheet. He moved his hands pointlessly for a moment before fiddling with the clasp on his cloak, allowing the silence to drag on. He hung his cloak on a hook near the door before speaking.

“Y’see, Tommy is…”

Phil trailed off, his brow suddenly furrowing as his gaze fixed on a point near the table. Techno swept his gaze back towards the kitchen, where Tommy had been sitting before Phil’s arrival. He found the table empty; Tommy’s half-eaten loaf of bread rested on the floor next to his crutches, which lay in disarray on the hardwood rather than propped up against a chair.

“Tommy?” Techno called into the gloom, and Phil snapped his head to him in shock, cricking his neck painfully. The boar barely noticed the reaction, too busy listening to Chat’s worried chanting as he marched across the room. Sticking his head into the living room, Technoblade found it completely empty, the fire growing low in the hearth. Chat grew louder in his head, drowning out a sharp question from Phil.  _ Where’s Tommy, Tommygone, Technopanic, Find him, Down the hall, He’s probably scared shitless, E, Get Tommy. _ The piglin hybrid latched onto the lone piece of guidance, striding down the hallway, barely registering that Phil was hot on his heels.

“Tommy?” Techno called again, sticking his head into the boy’s bedroom. Philza suddenly latched onto his black-clad bicep, whirling him around before he could search the room properly. The boar raised his eyebrows in surprise, peering down at his stricken friend.

“Why are you callin’ for Tommy?” he choked, his hawk-like eyes harrowed. Tears threatened to spill past his pale lashes.

“He’s been livin’ with me-” Techno began, frowning softly, but was swiftly cut off, which annoyed the pigman extensively. Didn’t Phil understand that he had to find Tommy?

“Tommy’s dead, Techno.”

The boar guffawed sharply, eyebrows shooting towards his mousy hairline. “I find it hard to believe he’s dead, when he’s been eatin’ my food and bleedin’ on my sofa.”

Techno didn’t wait for Phil’s response, turning around and trudging into the room. His sensitive ears picked up the faintest scratching in one corner, whispering around the scarlet armchair. Holding up one calloused hand to silence Phil’s confused blubbering, the boar paced towards the northeast corner, clearing his throat softly. The room was uncomfortably dark, bruised shadows absorbed Tommy’s meager belongings, and snow lashed violently against the two windows adjacent to the recliner. Peering cautiously into the shadow behind the chair, Techno finally found his housemate. Tommy was curled in on himself, one bandaged hand clamped firmly over his mouth, the other fisted at the top of his head, tugging hair out of his ponytail. He was trembling so violently, the boar was surprised that his prosthetic wasn’t clattering noisily against the ground. Tommy’s eyes were wide and unseeing, a lifeless grey slate without a soul behind them. Techno frowned softly, spinning around to sit cross-legged on the floor, resting his back against the wall and waiting for Tommy to register his presence. 

Phil stared at him from the door, a silhouette against the golden firelight in the hallway, blue eyes nearly glowing in the gloom. He took a step into the room, but Techno held up his hand again, pressing one finger to his lips. The father was trembling nearly as much as Tommy, his hands held out before him helplessly, snow melting from his slim trousers and turtleneck to puddle on Tommy’s floor. Phil stepped further into the room, and Techno shot him a warning look, which he ignored. A painful hope danced in his face, and the boar sighed heavily before patting the spot next to him. The man was there in an instant, gazing across Techno towards the figure curled in the corner.

As Techno watched, the hope on Phil’s face was steadily replaced by mounting horror. His piercing gaze travelled over the abundant bandages, across the burnt edges of hair and the ends of gnarled ears. They trailed over webbed scars, edged with silver and thrown into horrific contrast by the frail moonlight from the windows. Phil’s blue trailed over empty grey, and Techno could tell the exact moment that devastation struck.

“Oh my god...” the man whispered, holding one hand over his mouth, staring at the dark wooden prosthetic before turning in horror to face Techno. “...Why aren’t you getting him outta there, Tech?”

“Wouldn’t be wise.” The pigman hummed sagely, turning away to watch Tommy. Something was beginning to stir behind the kid’s eyes, and Techno breathed a soft sigh of relief. That was a good sign. Slowly, the boar began to hum a gentle tune. Phil stared at him in confusion. He opened his mouth to say something else, but Techno clapped his hand across his father-figure’s mouth to silence him, his gaze never leaving the teen’s face. His song built gradually in volume, an awkward but melodic guide for Tommy’s conscience. He’d discovered the method after one of Tommy’s nightmares a few weeks back, when song was the only thing to draw the kid from his own mind.

Something returned behind the glass of the teen’s colourless irises, and his gaze slowly shifted towards Techno’s face, grey meeting almond. Techno smiled reassuringly, and Tommy blinked slowly, working hard to recognise where he was. Dropping his shaking hands to hover in front of his chest, the blonde’s mouth worked to speak, lower lip trembling violently. Techno nodded encouragingly, gently offering his hand to the kid palm-up. Tommy gurgled incomprehensibly, groping blindly for Techno’s broad, calloused fingers. Tears spilled from his silver eyes, tracking bubbled scars and dripping onto the ties of his neckerchief. Chat wailed sadly, some casting angry accusations at Phil.

“It’s only a friend.” Techno soothed, his voice barely a whisper, and Phil peeked around Techno’s shoulder to gaze at the teen in worry. Tommy quailed away from the other blonde, refusing to meet his piercing gaze, sinking into the shadows and drawing Techno’s fingers with him. 

The boar murmured soothingly, but it took a long time to draw Tommy from the inky gloom again. Phil reached out his own hand at a snail’s pace, palm-up in an imitation of Techno, lips tightened into a thin line. Tommy screwed his face up nervously as it approached, strangling the boar’s broad fingers with his own. The older man paused at that, a shadow of sorrow flitting over his face momentarily before he repainted a calm, if not strained, smile. After a minute of electrified stillness, Tommy released one of his hands from Techno’s grasp, reaching out for Phil. The tips of his bandaged fingers brushed Phil’s own, resting against them for only a second before he drew them away. Techno sent his old mentor an approving smile, but he knew that the dullness in Phil’s normally keen eyes meant that he was about to cry. When nobody moved for a long time, Phil politely excused himself and vanished from the room, a soft sniffle his only parting word. The pigman turned his full attention back to Tommy, who was blubbering incomprehensibly and twisting at Techno’s fingers again. With soothing words and gentle hand gestures, he slowly drew Tommy from the cramped space behind his recliner.

Technoblade didn’t realize that he was replicating long-lost nights, when a different older brother comforted Tommy in the dark.

-*-

Techno carefully shut Tommy’s door, brass bolt clicking softly. Heaving a slow sigh, the pigman wandered back towards the kitchen, lips tightened around his tusks and eyes dark with worry. It had taken another fifteen minutes to fully coax Tommy from his hiding spot, and an additional half-an-hour to settle him down. Try as he might, the boar hadn’t been able to convince Tommy that there wasn’t any danger around; Tommy had spent a good few minutes stumbling about the room, holding himself up with the furniture, babbling to Techno nervously while he stuffed all of his trinkets and pictures into his enderchest. The teen now lay in bed, prosthetic and neckerchief tucked deep into the enchanted container, hidden beneath the other valuables he’d hastily squirreled away. It was the first time he’d stowed either item in days.

Edward tossed another log onto the fire as Techno emerged from the hallway, gaze landing on a pacing Phil. The blonde was circling the kitchen anxiously, chewing on the ends of his fingers out of habit, defrosting hair clinging to his face. Phil had tidied up a bit; Tommy’s glossy crutches lay in the centre of the sturdy table, the loaf he had dropped on the floor was swept away, and the dishes were cleaned and laid out to dry. When his gaze found Techno, Phil threw himself into a chair, gesturing for Techno to sit down as well. The pigman obliged, settling himself across from Phil with weary interest.

“Everyone thinks Tommy’s dead.” Phil started, hands splayed on the table as he leaned forwards, staring at Techno with hurt and slight accusation. “ _ I _ thought Tommy was dead.” 

Techno sighed heavily, running his hands down his face. “Not my problem.” he groaned, leaning his chin in one palm. “It’s probably best if they keep thinkin’ that way.” Phil frowned, but nodded, slowly easing backwards in his chair. 

Techno allowed the quiet to settle for a moment. “...Why do they think he’s dead?”

Phil scowled wearily. “Ya should’ve seen Logsteadshire, Tech…” he murmured, gaze growing distant. “Everything was blown sky high, and there was this great big pillar…” The boar raised his eyebrows sharply, jaw rising from his hand in surprise.

“Tubbo found it like that first.” Phil added, carding one hand through his hair. “Poor kid. It was his birthday, too. Day before Christmas Eve: the twenty-third. I think he was off to visit, to celebrate, and...” he trailed off, gesturing aimlessly with one hand. The room seemed dark and suffocating following his words.

“Tommy hates fire. He wouldn’t do that himself.” Techno eventually gruffed.

“Wait, Tommy hates…” Phil frowned softly, leaving his remark unfinished. “It wasn’t the explosions, Mate.” He elaborated, toying with his damp shirt absently. “They think he jumped. Off the pillar. Probably think Dream blew everything up, based on the way they treated him at the funeral.”

“Funeral?” Techno echoed, lowering his arm and straightening his back with interest. Phil nodded forlornly, but didn’t elaborate. It was a small, personal affair, and the specifics were unimportant. The hybrid drummed his broad fingers against the table, agitation bubbling under his skin. “...And they think Dream had somethin’ to do with it?”

Phil analysed him for a moment before nodding again. The older man didn’t flinch when Techno jumped to his feet, nearly slamming his fists on the table before thinking better of it. He paced near the living room door, hands clenching rhythmically at his sides, squinting against Chat’s roars of rage. They wanted blood, _ Dream’s blood _ , and Technoblade was currently more than happy to oblige.

“Take a seat, Tech. You’re not gonna find him in that storm.”

The pigman didn’t sit, hunching down to press his knuckles against the table. The Boar was itching towards the surface, lightening his hair and sharpening his teeth. “I can tell that guy’s done some  _ fucked-up _ shit to Tommy. He’s not gonna get away with it, Phil.”

“I know-” Phil raised his hands in a placating gesture, “-but Tommy’s priority number one, yeah?”

“...Yeah.” Techno gruffed, slumping back into his chair in defeat, the shadow of the Beast trailing away. There was no way in hell he was gonna leave the kid alone again, especially after today’s disaster. The pair lapsed into contemplative silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Phil eventually broke it, quietly prompting Techno about Tommy’s progress, plans of sleep gone from both of their minds.

-*-

The alternating sound of wood and sock echoed softly from the hallway, drawing Phil and Techno from their whispered discussion. The grey of dawn filtered through the squall, barely adding to the glow of firelight, which washed the kitchen in amber. Both men had dark shadows under their eyes, but neither compared to the bruised bags haunting Tommy’s lids. He was leaning heavily on the wall, wearing the same clothes as the day before; a rumpled caramel jumper draped over his gangly frame, and soft black trousers fell over his prosthetic, leaving only the ornate walnut claw in view. His bandages were falling off his fingers, ripped away in places, and his ponytail had come loose. Tommy made a small noise at Techno, and the boar rose, approaching the teen with cautiously outstretched hands. The blonde peered up at him through his pale mane, holding his fingers outwards, murmuring an incomprehensible request. Technoblade nodded curtly before gathering the loose ends of the bandages. Tommy carefully averted his gaze to the ceiling while Techno worked, uncovering vivid scars and permanently red fingers before delicately swaddling them again. The kid hated looking at his old wounds; Chat believed that Tommy closed his eyes while taking baths, and Techno had grown to agree with them. Phil watched with worry, though he couldn’t see Tommy around the boar’s broad back.

When Techno patted Tommy’s knuckles, the teen hummed an apprehensive, wordless thanks. Lowering his gaze from the ceiling to peer around the boar’s shoulder, Tommy stared wide-eyed at Phil from the safety of the hallway, separated from his adoptive father by the wall of Techno’s body. The other blonde smiled softly, carefully schooling his face as Techno had advised. Turning to half-face the older man, Techno nodded at the crutches laying on the table, and Phil hummed a soft ‘Ah’ of understanding. Delicately taking the glossy crutches, Phil rose with a careful elegance, keeping his expression passive and shoulders untensed. Tommy ducked behind the pigman minutely, his lips pressed into a flat line as they flickered from Phil’s face to the crutches in his hands. Phil held them out, trying to keep his hands from shaking. The teen stared at the man’s eyes, fingers ghosting Techno’s sleeve, but made no move to take the crutches. Phil kept the gentle smile in place, utilizing his endless patience with the younger blonde. After a few solid minutes, where the whole cabin held its breath, Tommy slowly extended his swaddled fingers. His silver gaze never left Phil’s face while he groped for the crutches, lifting them tentatively from his father-figure’s grasp and drawing them back into the safety of Technoblade’s shadow. Phil nodded approvingly, wordlessly dropping his hands back into the security of his trouser pockets. Meeting Techno’s eyes to exchange a wordless conversation, the older man cautiously retreated to the shelter of the living room, vanishing from sight. 

Tommy tucked his crutches into his armpits, sagging onto them with a shaky sigh, shrinking in on himself even further. The boar watched him for a moment before marching towards the pantry, rubbing the back of his neck with one rough hand.

“Whad’ya want for breakfast, Phil?” he barked, bending to scrounge through the chests absently. Phil called something about waffles, and Techno hummed his agreement while he sorted out the necessary ingredients. When he rose, Tommy had vanished from the hallway; the fall of his crutches and thump of his prosthetic had been unusually quiet, and the boar hadn’t even noticed his departure. Sighing heavily, Techno dropped his ingredients on the counter, unhooking his sunflower apron from one wall as he went. Chat murmured softly within his head.  _ Two’s company, but three’s a crowd. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Techno opens the door to find Phil. His sad, stressed ex-mentor comes inside with news from the S.M.P, though he's hesitant to share it. Just as he's about to reveal the bad news, he notices a set of abandoned crutches on the floor, along with a half-eaten loaf of bread. Techno notices Tommy's absence, and goes looking for him, which confuses and distresses Phil. Phil tells him that Tommy's dead, and Techno is surprised. They find Tommy hiding in the corner behind the recliner in his room. Techno steadily lures him out of his daze, and Phil is distraught over the state of the kid. Phil tries to reach out for him, but Tommy only brushes his fingers for a second before shying away. Techno eventually lures Tommy out, but he can't convince the teen that the danger is gone. Tommy stores all of his belongings, including his prosthetic and neckerchief, in his enderchest.
> 
> In the kitchen, the older men fill each other in on what's been happening in their respective corners of the world. They talk all through the night, and Tommy shows up in the morning looking terrible. Techno fixes his bandages for him, and Phil gives him the crutches. Tommy slips away down the hallway before Techno starts making breakfast.  
> \----------------------------
> 
> Hello all!! I'm thrilled that you guys enjoyed the maps, and I love seeing all your comments. They definitely make my day, even if they're small!! <33
> 
> School starts back up for me on Monday. I'm a few chapters ahead in my drafts, but I may slow down updates to every four or five days, instead of every three, so that I can keep updates regular. We'll have to see!


	14. Road Trip for Rocks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Family road trip, pogchamp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No big tw’s this chapter. The angst is too light to need any.
> 
> Minor fluff and minor angst blend, baby. I'll be posting every 4-5 days coming up, rather than every 3.

“Breakfast, Tommy!” Phil called, his voice ringing melodically through the cabin. It was a sharp contrast to Technoblade’s gruff, if not earnest, drawl. The boar wasn’t sure if Tommy liked the change or not; the teen hadn’t taken to Phil as readily as the older men had hoped. It had taken five days for Tommy to emerge from the shadows of the hallway, and it was only to go outside and see Woman Henry. The teen spent most of his time in the heated stables, hidden from his housemates, silently stroking the cow’s face. He had grown incredibly skittish since his father-figure’s midnight appearance, leaping out of his skin at the slightest bump, dropping his crutches with a ringing  _ thwack _ whenever something moved too quickly in the corner of his eye. All of Tommy’s belongings remained firmly in his enderchest; his bedroom now looked vacant, the empty shelves gathering dust, the sunshine-yellow quilt tucked behind the scarlet recliner in a blanket-lined nest. Techno quickly learned that if Tommy wasn’t in sight, he’d stuffed himself amongst the quilt, sheltered in the den behind his chair, and shouldn’t be disturbed. 

Now, ten days after Tommy began leaving his room, he thumped slowly down the hallway towards the kitchen. His swaddled fingers danced nervously over his crutches, his gait soft and barely audible as he melted from the gloom hanging in the western hall. Colourless eyes leapt nervously about the room, searching for a threat, shadowed by heavy bags and a damaged fringe. Tommy had begun putting his hair up again yesterday evening; Techno currently gazed on from his place at the table with proud approval, nursing a steaming mug of coffee. Phil smiled at Tommy from his place at the stove, flipping half-a-dozen eggs frying on the backburner with a silver spatula. The teen shuffled nervously, scuffing his socked toe against the hardwood, before quietly thumping towards the table. To Technoblade’s immeasurable surprise, Tommy settled himself into the neighbouring chair, fiddling with the hem of his red cotton jumper and keeping his eyes firmly on the cork placemat. It took a lot of willpower to keep his gaze from travelling to the nervous kid at his side; Techno definitely didn’t want to spoil this moment.

When Phil spun towards them bearing plates piled high with food, he hastily disguised his choke of surprise with a hasty call of “Eck-Eggs! Fried eggs, just like you like ‘em!” Setting the meals at each occupied placemat, Phil took a seat across from the pair, smiling toothily. Tommy shifted next to Techno, his bandaged fingers itching forwards to scoop the plate close to his chest before shovelling eggs into his mouth. Techno pointedly ignored his table manners, and quickly distracted Phil with talk of replacing his broken comm-stone, keeping the older blonde from reprimanding his youngest. Tommy mumbled incomprehensibly around a mouthful of apple after a moment, before swallowing and clearing his throat nervously.

“I-I c-co-c-could use a c-co-omm-stone, m-ma-aybe…” His rasp was barely more than a whisper, and he hunched forcefully over his plate as he said it, talking into his hashbrowns. Both older men fell silent, and Tommy quailed, whispering nonsense and clawing his plate into a more desperate hold.

“I think that's a great idea, Tommy!” Techno barked, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. The blonde continued to stare resolutely at his breakfast; although his fringe shielded him from Phil, Techno could see that his face was screwed up in apprehension, eyes shut tight. 

“We can get started today, Tomms!” Phil added hastily, forcing the concern from his voice, still unused to Tommy’s stranger behaviours. “A little family bonding!” The teen nodded stiffly, digging his fingers into the ceramic of his plate, and sat still and silent. Carefully, Phil picked up the conversation, turning it away from the enchanted rocks and towards a safer topic; the weather. He recounted his perilous trek through the blizzard over two weeks ago, when he had ridden through many wailing nights to reach the cabin. Tommy eventually began to eat again, shovelling forkfuls of eggs and potatoes into his mouth, barely chewing before he swallowed. Phil glanced at him every so often, but whenever he hesitated in his story, Techno would pointedly prompt him to continue. The boar wasn’t going to let Phil scare Tommy, not when the kid was finally sitting at his side, afraid that at any second his meal would be snatched.

While Phil and Techno cleaned up the dishes, Tommy remained at the table. He picked carefully at his placemat and fiddled with the straps of his harness through the dark fabric of his trousers, keeping his baleful gaze on their backs. When Phil glanced over one shoulder, sweeping a floral towel across a clean plate, the teen carefully averted his eyes and shrunk into his seat.

“How about you go and get your coat on, Tomms? We’ll mount up after we’re done the dishes, and make for the river. You boys can find good rocks to be your comm-stones.” Phil resolutely kept his gaze on Tommy, despite Techno’s accusatory glance in his direction. Chat muttered in the boar’s head;  _ doesn’t he know not to make Tommy uncomfortable? _ Tommy nodded stiffly, waiting until Phil turned back to the dishes before rising and soundlessly limping down the hall to gather his things. Technoblade cast a glance at his old mentor while passing him a dripping frying pan. Phil grimaced in response.

-*-

Techno was synching up Carl’s girth when Tommy joined them in the stables, creaking open the thick stable doors with one shoulder. He was bundled up in a navy corduroy jacket, a thick cream scarf wrapped around his neck, and a matching toque tugged low over his gnarled ears. His bandaged hands were hidden within thick hide gloves, which he was currently using to tug at the hem of his scarlet jumper. Woman Henry lowed in eager greeting, weaving between the men and their horses to reach the teen. Techno glanced over his shoulder, face softening as Tommy removed his gloves and reached out to stroke his cow, murmuring gently to her as she butted his stomach. Phil was too busy bridling Doc to notice Tommy’s entrance; the spirited, dark dapple-grey stallion was doing his best to avoid the bit, and Phil had started swearing at him. Tommy glanced nervously at the cussing blonde, and Techno swiftly ducked in to help bridle Doc.

“Y’can’t just start swearin’ whenever you want, Phil.” The pigman hissed, glancing over one shoulder as he began wrestling with a snorting, very unhappy Doc. “You’ll spook him.” Phil grimaced apologetically, glancing at Tommy briefly as he murmured softly to his lanky steed. When the cussing had stopped, Tommy relaxed; he was currently cooing fondly at Woman Henry in one corner, brushing her forehead with slender fingers as she nosed at his chin.

When both horses were saddled, the men led their steeds into the pasture. Tommy trailed after them, his cow sauntering in his wake. With tack re-tightened and stirrups adjusted, Techno swung himself onto Carl’s back before reaching a hand out for Tommy expectantly. The teen struggled through the snow, crutches dragging in the high drifts as he pushed towards him.

“I can take your crutches, Mate.” Phil hummed, reigning in Doc next to the teen, his own palm outstretched. Tommy was immediately apprehensive, drumming his fingers against the leather grips. Techno opened his mouth to argue, but the teen was already removing his supports from under his armpits and handing them over, balancing awkwardly. To both men’s surprise, the teen began fiddling with his scarf, unravelling it from his scrawny neck and tentatively reaching out to hand it over. Chat began bellowing angrily. Phil’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, and Techno felt rage bubbling precariously at the surface.

“He’s just gonna carry them for ‘ya while we ride, Tommy.” Techno assured, trying to keep his voice even. “Keep your scarf. We aren’t takin’ your things.” Phil hummed a hasty agreement.

Tommy blubbered at him, turning away from Phil to stare forlornly at Techno, seated high above. The teen grasped Techno’s outstretched palm hesitantly, and the boar hauled him upwards, settling Tommy on the lip of the saddle. He clung to the fur of Techno’s heavy lapis cloak, nervously rewrapping his thick scarf about his neck. Chat was wailing softly, their concern and anger thrumming softly against the boar’s temples. Techno cast a look in Phil’s direction; his mentor had strapped the crutches to the back of his saddle, and was gazing over at Tommy with concern. He caught the pigman’s eye, furrowing his eyebrows in response to the look. Techno sighed softly, urging Carl towards a pass in the copse of spruce at the edge of his fields, leading them north. Woman Henry watched them go.

-*-

They were nearly at the river when Tommy first spoke. Techno and Phil had been holding easy conversation, trying to decide what to plant in the south fields in the upcoming summer.

“Ho-h-how d’you ma-ake a c-co-comm-stone?” It was soft and nervous, and he simultaneously shrunk against Techno and leaned away from him.

“It’s a pretty easy enchantment, actually.” Phil hummed, rotating slightly in his saddle to watch Tommy. Doc and Carl had been trotting abreast, so that the older men could chat without shouting. “It’s just a few magic words, and you turn a stone over four times in your hand.” Phil gestured with his free hand as he explained, though the actions were vague and totally aimless.

“R-really?” Tommy hummed, gazing over Techno’s shoulder with round, curious eyes. The boar couldn’t see him well; he was keeping his eye on the horizon, where a wide black ribbon of water cut its way to the sea from the cliffs in the west.

“Yep!” Phil hummed brightly, reigning in Doc and placing himself next to Tommy. The teen fiddled with Techno’s cloak as his father-figure drew nearer, but didn’t shy away. Techno smiled softly.

Phil continued explaining the lore and usage of comm-stones as they drew up their horses on the bank of the creek. Thin trails of steam rolled off the rippling surface, and clear, dark water rushed over multicoloured stones with a merry gurgle. It seemed as though Tommy had no knowledge of communication devices, though he was incredibly eager to learn. Phil continued regaling Tommy with a story about sorcerers while he unstrapped the crutches from Doc’s saddle, handing them over when the teen was safely off of Techno’s back. The piglin hybrid was certain that Tommy’s awestruck expression was only partially due to the story.

“W-Why don’t we need to use ‘em i-i-in the S.M.P?” Tommy asked, carefully tucking his crutches under his arms.

“Nobody needs ‘em. Dream can grant them the ability to communicate without a device while they're in his S.M.P.” Phil responded without thinking, and Techno’s eyes grew wide in alarm when the name was spoken. Tommy stumbled sharply, a strangled noise choking past his lips, nearly falling into the snow. Everyone froze for a long moment. Chat was reprimanding Phil angrily, and Techno shot him an angry look.

Tommy gurgled for a moment, his shoulders trembling and breathing unsteady. Eventually, he cleared his throat, wobbling away from them as he talked. His voice was merely a whisper, and it cracked dangerously. “W-W-wh… Why don’t th-hey n-need ‘em?” Phil breathed a sigh of relief, sagging down to place his hands on his knees, his shimmering black-and-white cloak pooling weightlessly on the snow.

“...Do you know what S.M.P. stands for, Tommy?” Technoblade hummed, moving away from Carl and towards the riverbank. The teen glanced up nervously, jolting his head side to side. His eyes were watery and hazy, and his lower lip shook. Techno’s heart clenched. “It’s an abbreviation. ‘Superimposed magical plane’ is the full term.”

“...Hh?” Tommy strangled out a sound of confusion, his brow furrowing.

“Superimposed magical plane.” Techno repeated. “Somebody with a lot of power sets up a border, and within it they can do magic easily, or grant power to others.”

“Like talking without a device.” Phil prompted, passing them to pick his way down the snow-covered embankment and onto the glossy, multihued rocks of the shore. “That’s a tricky bit of spellwork anywhere else, but everybody in the S.M.P. can do it with a flick of their hand.”

Tommy stared at them in surprise, his mouth slightly agape and eyes far away. Eventually, he was broken from his stupor when Phil called him over to look at the rocks, vaulting hesitantly away from Techno’s side. The piglin hybrid stared after them, watching his old mentor poke at the shore, Tommy laying his crutches down to crouch at the older blonde’s side. Chat was muttering angrily in his head.

“...Yeah. I know, Chat.” Techno murmured, schooling his face as he approached the pair. He and Phil shared a knowing glance over Tommy’s golden head, grim realization haunting each of their eyes. They both understood the implications of the kid’s exile from not only L’Manburg, but the S.M.P. as a  _ whole _ , thrown out of Dream’s magical borders with zero knowledge of communication devices. Tommy was too occupied with the stones to notice the silent exchange, babbling incomprehensibly at the rocks as he sifted through them, his gloves shoved into his pockets. Techno turned away from Phil, searching for his own rock, pushing back the mounting rage of Chat which pounded at his temples.

Techno paused in his search further up the bank to, gazing back at the pair of blondes, fiddling with an oddly square black stone absently. Tommy clasped an oval, mossy-turquoise rock in one bandaged fist and held it out to Phil, babbling excitedly. Phil cast him a soft smile, examining the rock before approving with a sage nod. Tommy’s almost-smile wobbled forwards, but only for a moment, focusing on Phil’s enchantment instructions. He copied the magic words clumsily a few times until he got it right, and Techno’s old mentor smiled widely. Turning the stone over four times in his fingers, Tommy murmured the spell with earnest excitement. A soft golden glow painted across Tommy’s face for a moment, and he let out a squeal of delighted surprise, jumping up without his crutches and hopping excitedly. Techno straightened fully and gaped;  _ Tommy was moving without his crutches _ . Chat’s grim muttering morphed excited cries. The teen turned around, hobbling hurriedly across the snowless shore towards Techno, holding the rock outwards with a trembling almost-smile that showed his teeth.

“C-Ch-Check it out, Big Man!” he croaked, tripping over a snag in his excitement. Techno lurched forwards to catch him, but Tommy planted his prosthetic in the loose rocks, catching himself before he bit the dust and continuing towards the piglin hybrid as though nothing had happened.

“Fantastic.” Techno hummed, his own grin shining forwards as he examined the stone, a hazy shimmer around its mottled blue edges. Both of them knew he wasn’t just talking about the comm-stone.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tommy has spent the last two weeks skittish and subdued. He's spent most of his time in the 'den' behind his chair and in the stable with his cow. All of his belongings are still tucked in his enderchest. On the fifteenth morning since Phil's arrival, Tommy chooses to sit down next to Technoblade. During their morning conversation, the teen asks if he can get a comm-stone as well. The others hastily agree, and they plan a road trip for that afternoon. 
> 
> They find their way to the river up north. Phil tells Tommy about comm-stones and their uses, as it's become abundantly clear that Tommy knows nothing about communication devices. Technoblade tells the teen about S.M.P's, or "Superimposed Magical Planes." They find good rocks for their comm-stones and enchant them. Tommy proceeds to walk without his crutches for the first time.  
> \------------------------------------------
> 
> Hello, strangers! My initial plan was to post every five days so that updates are regular, but I've managed to get ahead in my drafts, so have a chapter one day early. I have a lot of schoolwork coming up, but hopefully I can keep on top of updates.
> 
> :] <3


	15. Ay, Family Bonding Check

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cabin is lively again. Pogchamp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MINOR TW!!//// A bit of a panic attack. You’ll see it coming.
> 
> Mix of fluff and broader story development?? You betcha. Strap in fellas, we’re moving the plot along.
> 
> There’s a big-ish time jump in this one, as I wanted to advance the storyline. I can’t get hung up on little things if I want to finish, and I also don’t want it to get repetitive; there’s only so many times Tommy can panic before it becomes the same.  
> As a rough timeline reference: Tommy turned up in Techno’s basement midway through December. It’s now nearly the end of February.
> 
> :]

Techno heaved a glinting axe over his head, bringing it down on a slab of uncut firewood with a resounding  _ thwack _ . A brisk, late-February chill hung in the air as the sun sunk towards the horizon, clinging to the last vestiges of deep winter. Crisp golden clouds hung across the evening sky, sharpened beautifully by the bitter weather. The tundra was quiet, giving him ample time to mull over his thoughts and listen to Chat’s ramblings. In the weeks since the excursion to the river in the north, Tommy had begun to come out of his shell; the cabin had a warm liveliness to it lately, and quiet laughter could often be heard within its white walls. Phil had finally moved off of the living room sofa, where he’d been sleeping since his arrival, and now had his own room upstairs amongst their vast collection of enchanting books. Tommy treated Phil with warm familiarity, which was almost an improvement from his pre-exile days.

Technoblade’s contemplations were interrupted when the square black stone in his pocket grew warm against his thigh. The pigman groaned, sweeping his free forearm across his brow as Chat tittered excitedly. Lodging the head of the hatchet into the stump he’d been chopping firewood on, the boar dug into his pocket, fingers closing around his comm-stone. Scowling grumpily, he drew it out and rolled the rock in his palm, silently activating the spell. Pale letters etched themselves into the air in a shimmering screen above his hand, and though the words glowed and winked like flames, they cast no light on the boar’s face. Part of their enchantment was that only the creator could use the comm-stone, and its messages were only visible to their eyes. Wearily, Techno glanced at the bottom line of text.

_ <TommyInnit> CHOP WOOD FASTER LOSER _

_ <TommyInnit> ITS MONOPOLY TIME _

Techno scoffed softly, but the corners of his mouth turned up around his small tusks. The minute Tommy had figured out how to use his comm-stone - a combination of spoken and unspoken spellwork - he had begun messaging his housemates constantly. An hour wouldn’t go by without the familiar thrum of energy from the enchanted stones that Phil and Techno kept, signaling that Tommy had found something new to tell them. Chat’s favourite message so far was ‘ _ eating your bread lol. _ ’ Techno didn’t think it was very funny when he found Tommy trying to haul himself into the rafters above the table, legs churning the air, a loaf of bread in one hand and another hanging from his mouth. Another change since their excursion was Tommy’s drastically increased mobility; He scampered around the fields all afternoon, dashing across the snow covered pastures with Woman Henry in his wake. At first he’d been clumsy and pegglegged, hobbling around without his crutches out of sheer stubbornness. Now, three weeks after his shaky steps on the riverbank, Tommy had gained full control over the ornate prosthetic, clambering around the tundra like a feral animal, scaling the trunks of snow-laden evergreens and playing strange games of tag with Woman Henry. His crutches currently lay in his room, gathering dust on a high shelf.

Techno shook his head, pulled from his reminiscing by the muffled thrum of boots on snow. Glancing upwards and slipping his comm-stone back into his pocket, the boar raised one eyebrow in exasperation. Tommy was barrelling towards him, fake Monopoly money stuffed in his swinging hands and streaming from the pockets of his black hoodie, fluttering onto the snow behind him. The ties of his faded lime neckerchief ripped about in the wind as he ran, and a broad, vaguely frantic grin was stretching the fading scars on his face. His stormy eyes were glimmering with mischief, crinkled by a wily smile. Tommy threw himself behind Techno’s broad back just as Phil came whipping out the front door, grinning wickedly.

“Hand ‘im over, Tech.” The older blonde called, jogging towards them and rolling a pair of red dice in his palm. Tommy squirmed behind his back, a light giggle rolling off his tongue. 

Techno grinned softly, setting his firewood back in the pile and placing his hands on his hips. “You can have him, if you can catch him.”

“Y-yeah, bitch! I’m too fast fo’ you!” Tommy barked, peeking around Techno’s shoulder with a wild grin.

There was a short silence as everyone in the yard registered Tommy’s words. Then, all hell broke loose. Techno let out a thunderous roll of laughter, Chat bellowing excitedly in his head. Phil, near breathless from surprised laughter of his own, lurched for Tommy. The swearing teen himself threw a fistfull of Monopoly money into his father-figure’s face, an open-mouth grin on his face, shoulders bouncing with silent giggles as he booked it back towards the cabin. Phil chased after him, hollering good-naturedly, and Tommy responded with a shriek of laughter. Techno trailed after them, gathering up the vivid bills with a wide smile, still chuckling.

Tommy was slowly coming back.

-*-

The temperate northern coast of the S.M.P. already smelt like spring. Three-quarters of the way into February and the shore of the northwestern sea was already devoid of snow. The pale cliffs of L’Manburg’s western border shone pearly white in the setting sun, amber light casting long shadows on the tufted spring grass. Delicate wildflowers of all sorts fluttered in a brisk evening breeze, glowing flecks of pollen waltzed in the sunlight, and dew sparkled like gemstones on clinging emerald moss. A fluffy honeybee hummed its way into a hole in the side of a white wooden hive, the paint around its edges flaking and weather-worn.

Tubbo surveyed the darkening moor for any trailing bees before carefully closing up the final hive. Despite the budding fauna, a chill of winter still hung heavily in the air, billowing his breath and reddening his nose. His bees wouldn’t like being stuck in the cold. Pulling the wool collar of his thick, brown suede jacket higher around his chin, Tubbo tromped his way up the hill towards his home. Numerous windows winked in the sun, and all of the pale green shutters were thrown open. The glass of his sunroom glowed blindingly white as the light struck it. The walls were made of rich sprucewood, nestled upon a foundation of hearty limestone bricks, which trailed upwards in a chimney along one side. Scraping mud off his boots on the steps of his broad porch, the teen shuffled into the shadows and let himself in.

The warmth of the roaring fireplace greeted him first, emanating from the living room doorway on his left. Tubbo let out a hum of content, exchanging his weather-chilled jacket for an oversized, yellow-and-chocolate striped jumper, tucking his boots into the closet as he went. Shuffling his way into the kitchen, the brunette fumbled his way through a cabinet, searching for a mug to dump hot chocolate powder into. The kitchen alone took up half of the main floor; it connected to the sunroom on the western wall, which housed the dining table and allowed the bright rays of sunset to bathe the room in gold. Plants crowded the corners and lined the edges of counters, healthy leaves reaching for the light. The walls were painted and tiled in warm white, on which rich brown cabinets and overflowing shelves were mounted. Sage-green curtains hung open at the window over the sink, where Tubbo was currently filling a scarlet kettle with water. 

Turning off the brass tap, Tubbo slung the kettle into its place on the stove, flicking on the burner and waiting for the water to boil. As he waited, the brunette gazed at his walls. Pictures cluttered every open surface, their frames painted a multitude of colours and size incredibly varied. Tommy grinned out at him from almost every one; his arms slung around Tubbo’s shoulders, or pointing exuberantly at a dog, or laying in a meadow with his old bull Henry. Tubbo’s chest constricted painfully whenever he looked at them, but he couldn’t find the heart to take them down. It felt like a crime to even  _ think _ about hiding his Tommy away, especially since the heartbreaking loss of his enchanted compass. He found himself gazing into Tommy’s eyes, lost in the vivid blue, and slowly his ears began to ring. Tommy laughed and laughed in the photos, but he could never laugh in real life anymore, and Tubbo’s head was beginning to hurt and his eyes were beginning to sting  _ and everything was suddenly so loud and- _

The kettle was whistling on the stove. 

Tubbo wiped his eyes and hurried over, clumsily pouring water into his mug before returning the kettle to the counter. The brunette stirred the hot chocolate mix as it dissolved, his silver spoon clattering loudly against the ceramic of the mug as his hand trembled. Tubbo tried to blow steam from the surface, but found that he couldn’t muster a strong enough breath to do so; his gasps were weak and shaking, lungs tight and head swimming. Tubbo leaned against the counter and squeezed his eyes shut, focusing on steadying his breathing. Focusing on everything but Tommy’s grin.  _ In for four, hold, out for four. Pause. In for four, hold, out for four. Pause. _

After dumping milk and marshmallows into the chocolate drink, the brunette clasped the mug in both hands and shuffled towards the table, sinking into his squashy chair. He heaved a weighted sigh and stilled his trembling hands, wiping at his blotchy nose and cheeks. His sleeve came away wet. Tubbo watched the sun dip into the ocean and vanish from sight, sipping his sugary drink, lost in his own thoughts. It was only movement across the darkened, craggy moor that drew him from his daze. Two figures were riding swiftly through the evening gloom, cantering along the mossy cobblestone path which led to Tubbo’s cabin. The ex-President lowered his steaming mug, squinting into the darkness. He recognised those horses. The scrawny white mare was unmistakably Boner, who usually sat gathering dust in Quackity’s stable. Ellie, the sturdy bay, was Fundy’s. Carrying his hot chocolate with him, Tubbo shuffled back to the door and into the clear night, not bothering with a coat or shoes. His socked feet fell soft on the porchwood.

“Been a while.” he hummed, taking a long sip of chocolate and watching the pair tether their horses to the fence of Tubbo’s paddock. Boner was tossing her head haughtily, tugging at the posts. Ellie looked rather subdued in comparison, watching them with dark eyes.

“Yeah, it has.” Quackity said, adjusting his navy beanie as he strutted away from his pale steed. He wore a similarly coloured suit, creased from the ride but otherwise immaculate, and a sky blue tie. “How’ve you been?”

“...Alright.” Tubbo hummed evasively, shrugging his sweater-clad shoulders. Fundy made a soft noise of understanding. The fox hybrid’s neatly pressed white button-down was hidden beneath his black-and-gold leather jacket, medals shimmering on his sleeve and breast pocket.

Gesturing for them to follow, Tubbo retreated into the warmth of the house. The pair trailed after him, gazing about the kitchen curiously. Tubbo felt vaguely self-conscious, tugging absently at the cuffs of his baggy sweater as he flopped down at the dining table. Quackity and Fundy were dressed impressively, looking for all the world like respected government officials. Tubbo didn’t look like anything; his clothes were rumpled and dirt stained, and his eyes were red and puffy. The President and his V.P. wandered over, settling themselves in their respective chairs. The teen didn’t miss the way that Fundy’s eyes lingered on the pictures of Tommy. Tubbo cleared his throat expectantly, sipping his warm drink.

“Ah, right.” Quackity hummed, attention drawn from the room, and he leaned forwards on the table. The lanterns cast long shadows over his unusually serious features. “You promised help to L’Manburg, in your resignation letter.”

“I did.” Tubbo chirped, taking another sip of his drink. It slurped faintly. There was something uncomfortably intense about Quackity’s voice, far too business-like and sharp. The hairs on the brunette’s nape raised at it, and a cold was creeping into the tips of his fingers.

“We need it.” The President groped within his suit pocket, fumbling with a bent piece of paper. Tubbo leaned forwards curiously, setting his now-empty mug on the table. From his pocket, Quackity withdrew a poster, its edges bent and slightly ragged. Fundy drummed his fingers nervously on the table, his soft eyes hesitant as they regarded the parchment. Tubbo took the page from the President in trembling fingers, the heavy silence raising goosebumps underneath the sleeves of his bulky jumper. In black ink was the likeness of a pig’s severed head, an apple in its mouth and pitch blood pooling at its neck. The script surrounding the image made the teen’s heart race.

_ The Butcher Army Needs You. _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technoblade mulls over the last few weeks at the cabin while chopping wood. Tommy is moving fantastically, and has taken to messaging his housemates at least every hour. Techno's thoughts are interrupted when Tommy comes barrelling outside, fleeing Phil with a lot of Monopoly money. Things are good.
> 
> On L'Manburg's western border, Tubbo closes up the last beehive of the evening. It's brisk but snowless on the S.M.P's temperate coast, and Tubbo bundles up and makes himself hot-chocolate. After having a minor panic attack about Tommy's death, President Quackity and Vice President Fundy arrive at his house on horseback. He welcomes them inside, and his promise of aid to his country is called upon. Quackity hands Tubbo a poster for the Butcher Army.
> 
> \-------------------------
> 
> Before my usual note, I want to say a massive THANK YOU!!! 500 comments and nearly 1800 kudos?! You guys are insane. All the pogchamps to you! I love hearing from you, and it really keeps me going throughout the week.
> 
> I'm giving you a chapter a day early!! This one has been sitting around for ages, and I've got a long weekend coming up, so I'll have time to stay ahead of the workload. I guess at this point my update schedule will be random? Expect an update in 3-5 days. :]
> 
> Not a lot of SBI in this one, but I hope I fed both your angst and your fluff desires today. Have a good week! <3


	16. Archery for Beginners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Learning how to shoot shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MINOR TW!!//// Description of scars, internalized hatred, mentions of past abuse, and implied neglect.
> 
> TOMMY POV?!?! YEP!! It’s been a long time since we saw Mr. Innit’s mind. Time to take the plunge.

Mud clung to Tommy’s boots as he plodded over the defrosting tundra, Woman Henry sauntering in his wake. The morning sky was pastel blue and perfectly cloudless, allowing golden sunlight to play on the morning fog and turn the world to honey. Snow still hugged the fence posts and the shadows under the trees, wet and dense and slick as ice, but it was slowly receding from the emptier parts of the plain. Scruffy grass and silvery shrub shoots were beginning to poke through the sodden earth, overtaking sodden, mouldering overgrowth from the previous autumn. Tommy didn’t mind the drab, damp landscape; Phil had assured him that the fenny swaths would dry, and by June the fields would be overflowing with grass up to his knees and flowers as bright as gems. Tommy was looking forward to it, but he was willing to wait; that summer meadow was still ages away, and he had learned quite a bit of patience, thank you very much. Besides, Phil could be lying. He did that sometimes.

It was early March, and the teen was plodding towards the treeline, a stout spruce bow clutched in his bandaged fingers. His ponytail bobbed in the temperate breeze, and his colourless eyes danced with excitement as they fixed upon the forest. Standing near a wide, sturdy old evergreen was Technoblade, painting a large red dot on the lichen-mangled bark. Tommy’s smile widened minutely as he approached, a bounce growing in his step.

“Big T!” he called. The words stuck in his mouth like old taffy, threatening to cement his teeth together. When it finally came out it was croaky and soft, but Technoblade glanced towards him all the same. His square, angular face softened slightly, in what Tommy had learned was a smile.

“There y’are, Tommy.” he gruffed, dropping a broad horse-hair paint brush onto the lid of the paint tin. “You brought Woman Henry here, too. Cool.”

“Yup. Ca-an’t keep the women away from me.” The blonde chirped, lips twinging slightly. A parasite of uncertainty wormed up his throat towards his head, cadence vaguely familiar but impossible to place.  _ Maybe he’s upset. Maybe Woman Henry makes him mad. He’ll kill her if you’re not careful, Stupid. _

“Just make sure you don’t aim at ‘er.” Techno hummed, approaching Tommy with a relaxed swagger.

Tommy laughed nervously, and the boar instantly noticed his discomfort. Apparently, nothing got past  _ The Blade. _ There was a subtle change in the boar’s disposition when he was concerned; his brow puckered just slightly over his broad nose, and his lips sagged around his small tusks. Tommy had learned to read people well, and he was pretty proud of it. It meant he could tell when he was in trouble.

“I’m not mad, don’t worry.” Techno assured him, fiddling with the cuffs of his flowing white shirt. They were rolled up around his elbows, exposing his weathered forearms.

“G-gotcha.” Tommy rasped, clearing his throat slightly and shifting his weight. The blonde murmured a soft request to the cow, and she lowed softly in response, sauntering off towards a dry island in the fenny tundra. Techno’s bemused expression made Tommy snicker, relaxing his clawing fingers and squaring his shoulders.

“Right. Wha-at’re we doin,’ Big Man?”

“Well,” Techno hummed, moving closer to the blonde, scrutinizing the red dot for a moment before turning to face his housemate. “...I don’t think your skill set lies in close combat anymore.” Tommy tightened his lips and tipped his head to one side, silently asking for the piglin hybrid to elaborate. People always told him what he could or couldn’t do, but Technoblade always had a perfectly justifiable reason at the ready. Techno’s lips quirked slightly at the gesture, and the teen’s lopsided grin grew.

“Even if your prosthetic were enchanted, you couldn’t match the mobility of your enemies in hand-to-hand combat.” His enemy’s name was left unsaid. They both knew who he meant. “You’ve got a keen eye, and a strong arm, but you never had the patience of archery before…” Technoblade shifted slightly as he trailed off, bouncing his shoulders in an uncomfortable shrug and gesturing aimlessly. 

Tommy fiddled with the pale bowstring, bottom lip jutted out subconsciously as he thought. Back before  ~~Dream~~ everything happened, he’d been headstrong and stupid. So very, very stupid. He’d crashed his way through uncomfortable situations, his heart on his sleeve and his morals on his tongue, armed only with his loyalty and causing more problems in his wake. He was glad Techno didn’t think he was like that anymore. Sometimes Tommy desperately missed his old self, but he knew that boy had died in Logstedshire, in a pool of blood at the bottom of a smoking pit. Technoblade drew Tommy from his thoughts with a light finger on one end of his bow, his gaze endlessly patient and kind.

“...So now ‘m ready to learn from  _ The Blade _ ?” Tommy asked, waggling his eyebrows and grinning. 

The pigman rolled his eyes and snorted. “Yep. Private lessons with the one and only Technoblade.” Tommy whooped at that, bouncing on the young grass and lingering ice, grim reminiscences swept from his mind. Techno openly laughed at that; it was only a short breath of air, a snort at best, but the teen knew the warm look in his eyes as he moved closer. As the hybrid began instructing him on the intricacies of the weapon in his hand, Tommy could tell that Technoblade was proud, and nothing that his ghosts could say would change that.

They spent hours in the chilled forest, the shadows shortening then lengthening at their feet, stretching away across the fenny tundra. Tommy pushed resolutely through numb fingers and aching shoulders, slipping unsteadily in the mud, using previously emaciated muscles in a way they’d never been used before. His first few shots fell short of the tree or flew wildly off course, even though he was only four metres from the target. When Tommy groped for his quiver to find it empty, Techno marched into the trees and gathered up the arrows for him without question, which made teen feel incredibly guilty. By the time the boar returned, Tommy’s lower lip was wobbling against his will, and his ghosts were roaring accusations against his skull.  _ Stupid, Idiot, making Techno do things for you. Useless cripple. He’ll hate you. _ Technoblade refused all of Tommy’s blubbered apologies, stating that he’d done absolutely nothing wrong, and that it would take time to learn. Tommy decided to believe him; Techno hadn’t ever lied to him before, and it didn’t seem like he was going to start anytime soon. After the blonde calmed down slightly, the piglin hybrid guided him with gentle nudges and artfully constructed advice. Eventually, Tommy’s shots were hitting the trunk with surprising strength, whistling through the air until they buried themselves in the bark. When his last shot sang into the centre of the bullseye, sinking so deep only the pale feathers were visible and they couldn’t retrieve it, they finally called it a day. 

Tommy was chattering away about their training as they entered the cabin, bursting through the cellar door and waving his bandaged arms about. His tan trousers were splattered with drying mud, and the green jumper he wore was rolled up past his scrawny elbows. Techno trudged after him, sharp face softened in a fond, close-lipped smile. The sun was already halfway below the horizon, casting warm light upon the shallow puddles in the yard and dancing blindingly on the southwest windows. The pair had completely forgone lunch, but for once Tommy hadn’t noticed his hunger. Ripping off his mud-caked boots to reveal the ornate walnut of his prosthetic, Tommy dawdled in the cellar until Techno was done putting away the paint, following the boar up the ladder. 

The teen was still yammering on about his last shot, which was rather impressive even in Techno’s eyes, as they entered the kitchen. Phil glanced up when the trapdoor opened, greeting them pleasantly as he finished off a set of grilled cheese sandwiches; two each, because of their previously missed meal. His piercing gaze hovered on Tommy for a moment before they flitted to Techno, his smile shifting minutely along with his focus. The teen carefully batted away the ghosting fingers of grief, continuing his story with renewed gusto, grinning broadly.

“You sho-ould’ve seen me, Philza! I drew back me arm, an’ then BAM! The arrow was dead centre! We couldn’t even get it back, I shot it so ha-ard!” Tommy cried, his raspy croak extra exuberant.

“Fantastic work, Tomms!” Phil hummed, ruffling the teen’s golden hair after setting their meals on the placemats. Tommy flopped down at Techno’s side and drew his plate close, placing his elbows on either side of the ceramic while holding up his grilled cheese in two hands. The twinge of sorrow still hovered in his jaw, but it was relieved slightly by Phil’s fond gesture, like a soothing balm over an old scrape. _ At least he isn’t mean to you. Isn’t noticing you enough? Don’t be selfish, Idiot. _

“It was s-so cool.” Tommy added around a mouthful of sandwich, silver gaze sweeping to the side to fix on Techno for confirmation. The blonde had to look up slightly to see the boar’s face. Tommy had hunched over his plate defensively, a habit that he was unable to break no matter how hard he tried. He knew deep down that Techno would never take his food, but misgivings hissed in his ear were hard to throw off.

The pigman swallowed a bite before breathing a soft laugh. “It was… actually great. For a first run.” he hummed, fondly bumping Tommy’s swaddled forearm with one rough elbow. The blonde beamed at that, shoving a sandwich into his mouth as though he were half starved. 

As the teen regaled them with more of his training, stretching and molding the finer details, he didn’t miss the strange light in Phil’s gaze. He knew that subtle look better than the back of his hand, the expression that neither of the older men ever knew was present. It was present when Tommy was jesting about something silly, or when he started to lag behind in Monopoly, or showed off the axe he’d spent all afternoon crafting. It had started to flicker behind Phil’s eyes when the blonde was eight years old, haunting their interactions in the quaint farm of his childhood, steadily replacing the glimmer of unquestionable affection that should be present in a father’s eyes. Not that Phil was his real dad, mind you; he just claimed to be, which should still count for something. Tommy’s never been able to live up to Technoblade, even when he was small and adorable and interesting. Phil’s prodigy was unbeatable in every way, and always has been. Today’s successful training was nothing compared to  _ The Blade’s _ first archery practice. That was the way things were, but Tommy would always try to change it.

-*-

The energy radiating from the silver compass in Tommy’s grasp seeped through his bandages, tickling his fingers as he lay in the comfortably claustrophobic den behind the recliner in his room. He was buried beneath his thick yellow quilt, folded about himself in the cramped space, staring at the softly glowing needle in the gloom. The phrase ‘ _ Your Tubbo _ ’ was etched along the top, where a delicate golden chord was knotted through a small hoop. As always, the triangular needle was pointing southeast, quivering minutely as magical energy reverberated within the glass. The teen had spent hours staring at his compass over the past few months, lost deep within his own mind, hidden away in his various dens when he knew nobody would find him. If Techno saw the enchanted tool, he would become tense and sad, and Phil would get that strange light in his eyes under a smile of pity. Tommy hated those reactions for very different reasons, so he kept his daily vigil secret, holding his Tubbo tightly in the dark. It always looked the same, of course; pointing to the southeast, a warm magenta glow emanating from it’s scarlet needle. But it was confirmation that Tubbo was alright. Tommy had toyed with the idea of messaging the brunette when he first got his comm-stone working, but Phil and Techno had advised against it. Despite their guidance the mottled turquoise rock often felt heavy in his pocket, drawing his attention and begging to be used. But everyone in the S.M.P. thought he was dead, and it was safer to keep it that way. Besides, in a way they were right.

Pulling the blanket from his head, he peered out of the gap between the chair and the wall in search of movement. The moon was high in the sky and the house was silent, so Tommy deemed it safe and wriggled from his den, leaving the sunshine-coloured quilt behind. Laying Tubbo carefully on his pillow, the teen sat with his back to the wall and his legs splayed before him, feet dangling over the edge. Fiddling with his prosthetic’s harness, Tommy slipped the ornately-carved walnut from his stump and stared at the bandages underneath with an uncomfortable frown. His silver gaze shifted from his stump to his hands, which had been swaddled anew by Techno after their archery practice, covered by scratchy fabric and hidden from scorn. Tommy didn’t dare remove any of his bandages; he was afraid of what he would see, and the ghosts that haunted his mind didn’t make things any easier. Older men in wicked masks would taunt him if he looked at his skin, he was sure of it. A younger Phil Watson would turn away in wordless disappointment, Pogtopia-era Wilbur would call him names, and a faceless man in a green cloak would ridicule him until he crumbled into nothing. 

But now, as he gazed at his hands with Tubbo’s needle pointing towards him, an unfamiliar boldness began to itch under his bandages. It was barely a shred of the wild courage he used to have, but it felt far too hot under his skin now, burning through his veins and overcoming his rational judgement. His consciousness battled itself, vaguely familiar voices arguing with each other silently in the night, snippets of long-forgotten or entirely fabricated conversations crashing violently against his temples. Tommy was starting to shake with the ferocity of their cries when a clear, familiar voice murmured softly in his ear. 

_ You’re alright. I’ve always thought your scars were cool. _ The pale haze lifted from Tommy’s vision, and he stared at his Tubbo cautiously.

“...Really?” he croaked. It was barely a whisper, and came out as an incomprehensible blubber to most ears, but he knew his Tubbo understood.

_ Of course. Why wouldn’t I? _

“Dunno.”

_ Go for it, man! I’ll be right here, promise. _

“...Promise?”

Tubbo didn’t respond this time, but he didn’t need to. Tommy embraced the sliver of his old courage, fiddling with the knot at the base of his elbow, green sleeve rolled up about his bicep. With shivering fingers, the blonde carefully unravelled the bandages, allowing them to pool over his bedsheets. The air in his bedroom swept over his uncovered skin, sweet and fresh and feather-soft. His eyes travelled over his forearms and fingers, which hadn't seen the light of day in many months; they were incredibly pale, but a lithe muscle snaked its way underneath roping scars and discolouration. Tommy’s old injuries weren’t pretty. They ranged from silvery white to bruised red, blooming over faint freckles and webbing over his tendons. His fingers were reddened and calloused, but his nails had all grown back and the horrible, festering blisters that had haunted his body were a distant memory. The masked men whispered venomously at him, taunting his injuries and pressing down upon his shoulders, but a glance at his Tubbo swiftly silenced them.

“Fuck you, bitches…” Tommy murmured, a strange smile quirking the corners of his lips as he unravelled the wrappings about his other arm and tentatively examined it. “‘M go-onna get me groove back.”

He was far from healed, but the memory of his best friend shielded him from the ghosts in his heart that night.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tommy and Techno spend all day practicing archery, going so far as to skip lunch. By the time they're done, Tommy has shot an arrow so hard it sunk into the tree, unable to be retrieved. They return to the cabin, Tommy boasting extra exuberantly to impress Phil.
> 
> In the dead of night, Tommy hides away in the den behind his armchair. He holds his usual vigil over the 'Your Tubbo' compass, making sure everything is alright. Eventually, he leaves the den, resting the compass on his pillow while he pulls off his prosthetic for the evening. Seized by a sudden courage and supported by the internalized voice of Tubbo, Tommy removes the bandages on his arms.
> 
> \--------------------------------------
> 
> Good evening, strangers!! I present character development!! I subtly changed the narrative with the POV, so there are a few stylistic differences from Tommy's view in comparison to Techno's. I hope you like 'em.
> 
> As always, take care of yourselves! I love to hear from you.
> 
> :] <3


	17. Proud Pig and Polaroids

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crew take a trip down memory lane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MINOR TW!!////Descriptions of old injuries, and implications of past neglect.
> 
> Back to Technoblade, BABY! I can’t stay away from the Blade’s perspective for long. I promise we’ll have more Tommy in the future, though.

Eggs hit the immaculate kitchen floor with a wet smack, yolk pooling over the dark floorboards. Technoblade couldn’t care less, staring at the figure emerging from the hallway with unashamed surprise. The pigman’s floral apron and grey sweatpants were spattered with flour from when he’d dropped the breakfast ingredients on the floor moments before, and his almond eyes were bugging from his head. It took a lot to shock the boar, and never in his wildest dreams did he believe that Tommy- _ mother-fucking _ -Innit would be the one to do it. But then again, the wiry teen had always been full of surprises. Tommy had wandered into the kitchen while Techno’s back was turned, griping good-naturedly over his sore muscles. When the boar had turned from his pancake batter to banter back, he’d choked on air and dropped everything he was holding. The blonde was dressed the same as always, in a grey jumper and tan trousers, his lime neckerchief fluttering and ponytail bobbing. The only notable difference about his attire was a thin, vaguely familiar golden chord peeking out below his collar that Techno couldn’t quite place. What had knocked the wind from Techno’s lungs wasn’t Tommy’s new, partially hidden necklace; it was his  _ arms _ , which were bent at awkward angles as he tried to massage a spot between his shoulder blades, his sleeves riding up.

Tommy- _ mother-fucking _ -Innit wasn’t wearing his bandages.

His uncovered arms were a patchwork of pale skin, even paler scars, and the bruised red remnants of burns. The teen’s hands were a mellow scarlet, as though he’d been out in the cold without gloves for too long, and the tips of his fingers were scorched with darker blemishes. Roping white strands marked the places were deeper lesions once lay, criss-crossing over a webbed network of cauterized skin. Technoblade took everything in rapidly, startled gaze trailing over Tommy’s arms and hands until they landed on the teen’s face. The kid was obviously uncomfortable from all the staring, frozen where he stood, eyes round and lips tight. Pointedly clearing his throat, the boar averted his gaze as he bent to salvage what he could from the spilled breakfast ingredients.

“You startled me.” he hummed, setting what he’d managed to save onto the butchers-block counter. Tommy shuffled nervously towards the sink, his breathing whistley. The scritch of nails over cotton was unfamiliar to the piglin hybrid’s ears; Tommy was obviously twisting at his jumper, one of his usual impulses, but the sound was so very different now. Technoblade snatched a dishcloth from the sink, bending to mop up the shattered eggs, still keeping his eyes from the hovering blonde.

“I…” he began, clearing his throat thickly. Chat was sobbing in his head, and he wasn’t sure if the pressure behind his eyes was a side effect of their mood. Tommy stilled nearby, the sound of his fidgeting gone.

“...I’m proud of you, Tommy.”

When he rose, he found Tommy right next to him, mouth wobbling and tears trailing down his battered face. Before he could react, the teen had crashed against Techno’s chest, enveloping him in a remarkably tight bear hug. His reddened fingers clawed at Techno’s ruby turtleneck desperately, sniffling and blubbering into the sunflower-patterned apron. The pigman wasn’t sure why his own vision was hazy and blurred, but he didn’t question it; instead, he tentatively placed his arms around Tommy’s shaking shoulders, humming soothingly and patting his hair. The blonde’s blubbers increased in intensity at that, but Techno didn’t draw back; this didn’t seem like the bad type of crying.

When Tommy calmed down and Techno had successfully driven away the mounting burn in his eyes, the pair set about making breakfast in companionable silence. After discreetly wiping at his nose, the boar gathered up new eggs and cracked them into a sputtering frying pan. Tommy dutifully chopped the fruit and poured pancake batter into a pan, his slender fingers nimble without a layer of plush bandages between them and the world. Tommy’s quiet aid gave the pigman ample time to brew coffee in his tulip-adorned french press, downing the scalding-hot drink the minute it was ready. He desperately needed caffeine at this point; his morning had started out with far more physical contact and emotional sensitivity than he was used to.

Phil entered the room when they were just finished preparing breakfast, dropping weightlessly down the ladder in the corner and landing sharply on the trapdoor to the cellar. Techno’s ex-mentor was even less tactful at approaching Tommy’s lack of bandages, crying out in shock when he spotted the bare arms and nearly falling to the floor. The teen looked pleasantly amused, but the boar picked up on the subtle tensing of his grey-clad shoulders, and the way he nervously groped at the front of his jumper, clasping the fabric at his chest.

“...You alright, o-old man?” Tommy barked, throwing himself into his chair with forced bravado. Technoblade settled next to him, watching Phil carefully. Slowly, the older blonde picked his way over to them, pushing up the sleeves of his robin-egg sweater and adjusting the collar of his white undershirt.

“You…” Phil began, his lower lip wobbling and blue eyes dancing. He leaned forwards over the table earnestly, resting his hand on Tommy’s forearm. The teen barely flinched, but his eyes darkened at the newfound skin-to-skin contact. “...I can’t believe it. Holy shit; this is fantastic, Tommy!”

“You’re blo-oody right it is!” Tommy crowed, digging into his breakfast with delight and drawing his arm from his father-figure’s grasp. Phil didn’t seem to notice, too busy rambling about how brave his son was until the teen slowly relaxed. Tommy was obviously enjoying being fawned over; an earnest and impossibly soft smile crinkled the corners of his eyes, which seemed to dance with all the colours at once despite their decidedly uncolourful nature. Tommy began regaling them with tales about his newly uncovered scars, though there was a note of carefully disguised hesitance in his rasp. The blonde chose his stories carefully, picking ones that were light as he gestured at a thin white mark from a well-armoured skeleton, or a circular brand from a duel with a ghast. Most of his wounds, especially the bigger ones, were ignored. Neither of the older men pried.

“I remember when Techno got his first scar.” Phil reminisced, a fond smile on his face. Tommy grew quiet, and Techno looked slightly exasperated. He’d heard this story thousands of times; it was one of his mentor’s favourites. Techno had secretly practiced with enchanted weapons in his first week as Phil’s apprentice, and had nearly chopped off his own arm in the process. Tommy and Techno spent the rest of their breakfast listening to Phil regale them with stories of his apprentice’s training days, voice warm and nostalgic over the clatter of cutlery. Tommy was silent through the whole thing, until he swallowed an impressively large bite of pancake and finally interrupted Phil’s story telling.

“D-Do you remember whe-en I… when I-I got my first scar?” Tommy asked, his voice small and hesitant, all but a hint of his bravado gone. A strange silence settled over the table then, as the teen stared pointedly at his breakfast and the two adults gazed at each other blankly. Technoblade felt uncomfortable guilt crawling up his throat, and Chat whispered accusatorily.  _ Technowrong, You don’t remember do you, Phil doesn’t remember either, Not pog, Oh dear. _

“...Of course, Mate!” Phil barked eventually, rising to his feet. His chair screeched painfully on the hardwood, grating the silence. “I’ve got a picture of it, in a photo album.” 

Tommy looked incredibly put-out, but it lasted for only a moment before he carefully smothered it with curiosity. Technoblade felt another vague itch of discomfort under his skin then, following an oblivious Phil into the living room and leaving the dishes behind. The piglin hybrid couldn’t shake the odd twinge in his heart, which was renewed every time he glanced at Tommy’s nervously sloped form and twisting, flushed fingers, which were being scrubbed over his uncovered arms rhythmically. Why couldn’t he remember? Phil loved to tell stories from his adopted family’s childhood, to the point where his endless reminiscences fell deaf on Technoblade’s ears. Maybe that’s why he was drawing a blank; the story was simply blocked from his memory from hearing it too many times.

“Ah, here it is!” Phil hummed, tugging a thick leather-clad book from a high shelf on the sittingroom’s eastern wall. Tommy wandered closer as his father-figure settled into a pine-green chair, gazing at the freshly opened first page. 

Polaroids and glossy pictures crowded the paper, slightly faded with age, each a carefully preserved memory. A baby Wilbur grinned toothlessly at them in all of the early photos, downy chocolate curls flopping atop his head, held snugly in a younger Phil’s arms. The father’s face was slightly stricken in these photos; he had just lost his wife, and the stress of caring for a child alone was visible in the strained lines of his soft face. As Phil rifled through the book, pausing to coo over a steadily growing Wilbur, other people began to appear. In one rectangular photo, an eight-year-old Wilbur had his arm slung around the shoulders of an eight-year-old Technobalde, sporting matching mousy-brown hair. Techno ran a hand through his blossom-pink locks subconsciously as he gazed at the picture.

“This is when you first showed up.” Phil explained, grinning softly at the picture. “You looked so similar...” Technoblade had never been able to see the similarity between him and Wilbur. Phil’s son was lanky and stretched, longer and softer than the piglin hybrid’s square edges and natural brawn. Tommy shifted slightly at Techno’s elbow, his face contorted, eyes simultaneously dull and glossy as he gazed into Wilbur’s kind face.

“Tommy’s first scar.” The boar reminded hastily, uncrossing his arms from the back of the armchair, reaching forwards to nudge Phil’s shoulder with one calloused finger.

“Right!” Phil hummed, flicking through a few more years of memories.

Eventually, the first polaroid of Tommy appeared. He was barely five, draped over the porch stairs and grinning mischievously at the camera. The kid’s knees were scraped up and dirty, and he was missing at least three teeth, but he didn’t seem to mind. Technoblade remembered that day like it was yesterday; Phil had returned from the woods with a boisterous, baby-faced blonde hanging off his back, yammering away while tugging loose twigs out of his curls. Eleven-year-old Techno had been very put out by the appearance of a very loud child and hastily claimed to hate orphans, but twenty-one-year-old Techno wished he had been kinder. After a few more pages where all of the rag-tag family were present in equal measure, Phil found the photo he was looking for.

“Here we are!” the old mentor chirped, jabbing a finger at a glossy polaroid, taped above a picture of a teenage Technoblade. Where all the previous images were crisp and clear, this one had a slight blur to it, as though taken with an untrained hand. Tommy frowned out of the picture grumpily, but there was a self-satisfied glimmer in his unusually blue eyes. The shin of his right leg was sliced open and caked with blood, and younger Tommy was jabbing an accusatory finger at the camera with one hand while gesturing to the gruesome gash with the other. 

They all stared at the photo for a moment, the silence prickling Techno’s skin; the boar couldn’t remember exactly when this happened, or how, despite the gruesomeness of it.

“...Wilbur t-took that ph-phot-to. With ‘is yellow camera.” Tommy stuttered, his gravelly rasp tight. The older men glanced over at him curiously, finding the scarred blonde’s face caught between immense pain and nostalgic fondness. “W-We wanted to train, like Big T. Bu-ut you nehv…” The teen paused mid sentence to swallow. “...You never let us anymore. We got de-de-esperate.”

Phil turned away to stare at the blurry photo of Tommy. Tommy couldn’t have been older than eight in it, staring up at him from Wilbur’s blurry polaroid. The older blonde opened his mouth to speak, but the Tommy of the present beat him to it.

“We got out some s-swords while you were away. I go-ot hurt.” Tommy poked a trembling red finger at the other photo on the page as he spoke, and the older men’s eyes trailed to it. Within the crisp rectangular picture Technoblade stood atop a mountain, a spruce forest trailing away behind him. He was gripping the straps of a navy backpack, a glimmering sword belted at his side, mousy hair pulled into a ponytail and tiny tusks barely gracing his lips. Phil’s iconic green-and-white striped bucket hat was pulled low over his brow, shadowing an expression of boredom. Technoblade stared at the photo in uncomfortable silence, allowing Chat’s mutterings to wash over his mind.  _ Technoyoung, Look how hurt he got, Technohike, This is bad, What was Phil thinking. _ What  _ had _ Phil Watson been thinking, leaving his sons alone while he went on a hike with his apprentice? When the silence continued to stretch on, Tommy slouched from the room, the steady rhythm of his prosthetic his only parting sound. Phil cleared his throat uncomfortably and flipped the page, staring at the next set of photos blankly, as though he couldn’t really see them. The dullness in his gaze suggested that he was holding back tears. When the sound of the front door echoed throughout the cabin Techno flinched, but he let Tommy go. After a moment of silent contemplation, Phil began narrating the album again, his melodic lilt trembling.

The longer Technoblade looked at the photo-album, peering warily over Phil’s tensed shoulders, the more uncomfortable he became. Now that he was looking for it, there was a definite imbalance in the subject matter of the pictures, especially as they became newer. Tommy and Wilbur slowly disappeared; where they were once all together, two separate pairs of men remained, grinning out of the memories in their own separate worlds. Wilbur and Tommy hung off of each other, toothy grins on their young faces as they posed for self-done polaroids, goofing off in the sun-bronzed pastures of the old family farm or romping through nearby woodlands. At the same time, Techno and Phil were always off on adventures; climbing mountains, gathering treasure, learning magic and the intricacies of combat. As the book wore on two sets became one, and the only pictures in the album were of a piglin hybrid and his mentor, the inseparable brothers fading to nothing. Phil had grown silent at this point, his sorrow-dulled eyes flicking from one picture to another, lips pressed into a tight line. Techno was feeling vaguely nauseous; how had he never  _ noticed? _ How had he missed that Wilbur, Phil’s only blood-related son, slowly disappeared from his father’s side, left to care for an unruly blonde orphan while their guardian paraded about the land with his pupil? Chat’s grim murmurings only made his lungs squeeze tighter, so he abandoned Phil in the sitting room and marched to the door, sharply tugging on his boots. The older blonde didn’t notice when he left, staring in mounting horror at the album he once held so dear.

Techno and Tommy needed to talk.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tommy and Techno have a bonding moment over Tommy's newly-removed bandages. The teen tells Phil and Technoblade carefully selected stories about his scars over breakfast, leaving most of his old wounds unexplained. Eventually, Phil starts regaling them with tales of Techno's apprentice days. Tommy interrupts and asks if he remembers Tommy's first scar. Things get uncomfortable when neither Techno nor Phil can think of the story.
> 
> The group look at Phil's old family photo album in search of answers, reliving memories as they search for Tommy's first scar. They find it in a polaroid taken by Wilbur. Tommy says that he and Wilbur secretly practiced with swords while Techno and Phil were away, because Phil never let them train anymore. Nobody knows what to say anymore, and so Tommy leaves the house. Techno, revolted by the photo album, eventually follows the teen. They need to have a talk.
> 
> \-------------------------
> 
> Hello everyone!! I hope you had a fantastic weekend.
> 
> We're getting towards the end of the first mini arc!! The overarching story is long from finished, of course, but next chapter marks the end of Part One. I hope you're enjoying everything, and as always I love to hear from you!
> 
> :] <33


	18. Having the Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy doesn’t like talking much these days, but Techno thinks this one is important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MAJOR TW!!////Discussions of gaslighting, internalized hatred, past neglect.
> 
> I can never stay away from that delicious angst. This is an important turning point for Tommy’s character anyway, and Techno needs to get over his weird fear of talking things through.

Technoblade tried to keep the guilty scowl off his face as he trudged towards the stables, his slim leather boots caked with mud. The thawing tundra was overcast, and a March rainstorm was brewing above the cliffs to the west, promising to turn the fenny tundra into a full-blown bog. Chat wasn’t making his mood any better, and rightfully so; the pigman currently felt like the world’s worst hybrid, and allowed the voices in his head to make as many critical remarks as they wanted to.  _ Technostupid, Technoslow, Selfish, You didn’t know, Tommysad, Phil fucking knew, Technobrother, I don’t know if Phil realized, Technofailure, Tommycomfort, Phil fucked up anyway _ . As he marched through the lumpy pasture, a muggy breeze tugging at his loose pink locks, Technoblade wondered if this was a good idea. He wasn’t good at communication, emotions, or Tommy Innit’s constant, intense use of both simultaneously. But he also felt like he  _ owed _ it to the kid; this was one thing he could try and fix without bashing somebody's head in, and he was going to pour his all into it. As he neared the simple barn door, which led into the heated stables pressed up against the raised stone foundation of his cabin, Techno finally hesitated. He suddenly felt very small in comparison to them, facing down towering cliffs of oak, steeling himself for a dangerous climb. With a breath that definitely didn’t shake its way out of his lungs, Technoblade pressed one broad, calloused hand to the dark doors and pushed.

Techno had learned long ago how to deal with a frightened and frantic Tommy. Hum his favourite tunes, rub circles against his back, rebandage his disfigured arms and give him piles of bread and golden apples. Technoblade had deluded himself into believing that this would be as stressful and heart-wrenching as the after-effects of a nightmare, when Tommy was wailing and blubbering and outside his own body. But the Tommy he found in the stable was different, and so much worse. He was curled against his cow in one half-lit corner, lanky six-three frame turned infinitely small as he buried between Woman Henry’s slender legs and sturdy neck. He looked smaller and more vulnerable than the boy in Wilbur’s shaky polaroids had ever been, drowning in his grey jumper, loose straw stuck against the fabric. His hair had come out of its puffy ponytail, covering his pointed and gnarled ears, a half-formed shield against the world. Tommy’s grey gaze was perfectly clear and devastatingly hollow as he stared at Technoblade, marred cheeks completely devoid of tears, which was somehow more terrible than crying. Woman Henry sent Technoblade a withering glance, one which he whole-heartedly deserved, because the Tommy before him was a Tommy resigned to age-old despair. His hunger-panged face was taught with pain, and the shadows under his empty eyes were heavy and bruised. In his discoloured hands he clutched a faintly glowing compass so tight it could shatter, its delicate golden chord looped around his neck.

The boar flattened his lips into a thin line, rocking back and forth in the doorway uncertainly. Chat had gone awfully quiet, leaving him with nothing but his guilt and a silence that grew unchecked. To the pigman’s incredible surprise, it was Tommy who spoke first, unhunching his back just slightly to swivel and face him.

“...I don’t wanna ta-alk about it.” he croaked. It whispered past his lips, barely audible and crackling horribly, but it felt like a harsh blow to Techno’s gut.

“We have to.” the boar insisted, closing the stable doors with a soft thud. Carl and Doc were watching him from one corner, munching absently on alfalfa.

“N-No. I...” Tommy swallowed hard, wincing. “...I promised ‘im I was gettin’ me groove back, a-and I didn’t, so I don’t wanna ta-alk about it.” The teen began to scrub at his unbandaged arms with his knuckles while he talked, face contorted in a desperate, grief-stricken plea.

“Who’d you promise?” Techno struggled to keep his voice even.

“Tubbo.” Tommy answered. The pigman didn’t respond for a moment, not quite sure how to follow a statement like that; Tommy hadn’t brought up anyone from L’Manburg or his exile since he arrived at the cabin, and the piglin hybrid had simply followed suit, never questioning the teen’s past or any of his carefully chosen silences. Now, he figured that there were certain discussions that shouldn’t be diverted. Techno wrung his hands and gestured aimlessly, wishing he were better at consoling the kid, because the pure grief in his eyes made it incredibly hard to breath.

“...We did wrong by you, Tommy.” He began, pausing to draw in a weak breath and wave his hands about. “ _I_ _did wrong_. So many times, and I…” Techno gestured again. Tommy looked up at him blankly for a moment before a watery smile warped his face.

“I go-ot what I des-deserved.”

Techno blanched at that declaration, his hands curled into trembling fists at his side and heart dropping to his toes. Never in a million years did he believe words like that could pass the teen’s lips. Tommy had said it so earnestly, so  _ casually _ , as if he was reminding Techno that the sun rose in the morning or the tundra was cold in the winter. Even now, as his harrowed grey eyes flickered to Techno’s clenched fists warily, he didn’t seem at all perturbed by his own words.

“...Who told you that?”

“N-Nobody.” Tommy answered automatically, growing a shade paler. He tightened his grip on the enchanted compass, battered knuckles white, scars stark and gruesome. “I-It’s just the truth, innit? I fu-uck everything up, always, and I’m s-se-elfish, and I-”

“Stop.” Techno demanded, cutting off the self-deprecating rant. That unfamiliar, painful burning was building behind his eyes again, and his hands were held palm-up pleadingly. “Stop saying that. That’s  _ everybody else _ , not you.”

“...No…” The blonde repeated, though his brow was furrowed in confusion and a hint of uncertainty haunted his words. “...I hu-urt people _. _ ”

“You don’t! Never on purpose, which makes you  _ far better _ than me.” Technoblade’s tone was fierce, hoarse with sorrow but leaving no room for debate. “You’re kind, and you  _ care _ way too much for your own good, and you’re way too _ brave _ for your own good. You’re… you’re  _ too good! _ ”

Tommy’s lower lip wobbled dangerously, his grey gaze sharper than daggers, piercing through Techno’s ribs and probing his heart. “...But I’m not-”

“You give up everything for others.” Techno cut in again, voice sharp and earnest. “Everything! The  _ only reason _ your nerdy friends and their country stand are because of your sacrifices!”

Tommy’s face contorted in a hesitant, depressed scowl. “Do-on’t talk about them like th-that!” he barked, pointing an accusatory finger at Techno. Woman Henry shifted angrily, and the boar barely resisted the urge to hit something in his frustration.

“That just proves my point.” He gruffed, waving his broad arms about again.

“N-no.”

“It really does, Tommy. Stop trying to convince yourself that you’re the bad guy.”

“I-I am. Wil-W-Wilbur said-”

“Wilbur was an idiot!”

“Don’t talk about him like that!” Tommy roared again, jumping lithely to his feet and clenching his fists at his sides. Woman Henry rose alongside him with an angry snort, looking surprisingly intimidating for an old heffer. The teen had drawn himself up to his full height, shoulders rolled back and eyes dancing like thunderclouds. In this moment, the pigman saw a flicker of old Tommy; raw energy seeped from his scars, inflating his presence until he filled the darkened stable, towering against the ceiling. His square jaw was set in rage, a warrior’s heart puffing out his chest, the charisma of an unquestioned leader sharpening his lithe limbs. In the lamplight, his mane flowed like a crown of golden flames.

“Wilbur was my friend! He was the  _ on-only _ person who ever took care of me! Him a-and Tuh...” The blonde trailed off and steadily collapsed in on himself, the superimposed image of L’Manburg’s founding-father dimming. It slipped off his caving shoulders and hunching spine like an ill-fitted cloak, leaving nothing but a shattered child in its wake. Techno felt his heart squeeze painfully, and the guilt set its claws into his ribs more deeply.

“Wilbur was an idiot, because you’re not the bad guy.” Techno repeated, patient and imploring, honesty urging his words. Tommy cast an empty, disbelieving glance at him, sinking back to the floor with Woman Henry’s help. The heffer was still glaring at the boar through round brown eyes. Technoblade had never put much stock in the good-guys; they never got good endings, falling to ruin or hubris or the insurmountable power of the world. But as he gazed at the shell of the boy before him, he put all his misgivings aside. He’d always put things aside for Tommy.

“You’re the hero, Tommy. Always.”

The blonde blinked at him in amazement, his colourless eyes sparking to life again, crowding out disbelief as the weight of Techno’s statement settled with him. The corners of his lips turned up in a watery smile, and suddenly he was dashing across the stable and crashing against Techno like he had earlier that morning. The piglin hybrid didn’t hesitate to wrap his arms about Tommy’s trembling shoulders, patting the back of his head soothingly.

“Y-you mean it.” Tommy blubbered, a statement of utmost faith and awe, choked by emotion as it left his smoke-damaged throat.

“Of course.” Techno affirmed, trying to keep awkwardness from his voice and limbs. There was no way in hell he was going to draw back, not when the kid who had become his little brother needed emotional support. “I always mean it.” Tommy snorted, and the piglin hybrid beamed. 

After a long few moments, Techno clapped his broad hands over Tommy’s shoulders and held him at arm's length, gazing earnestly at the lanky blonde.

“Let’s train.” he barked, gesturing ferociously towards the door with one hand, remorse softening his warm brown eyes despite the harsh tone. Tommy looked slightly confused, cocking his narrow face to one side. “You can pick any weapon you want. Any of them. A bow, or-or a  _ sword _ , or I could teach you magic or something. Anything you’d like, Tommy.” Anything for his younger brother.

As the pigman spoke, Tommy’s battered face softened and an eager smile warped the scars adorning his cheeks. “B-bow. I’m likin’ the bow.” he croaked, wiping at his nose with the back of one hand.

“You sure? I’m not gonna force it on you…” Techno trailed off, thinking back to the day before when he’d insisted that Tommy learn archery. 

“Positive.” Tommy hummed, and the firmness in his rasp relieved some of the guilt from the pigman’s shoulders. “I’m gettin’ g-good at it.” With that, the blonde was marching towards the door, tucking his enchanted compass back underneath his grey jumper and tying up his unruly golden mane with a chord of soft hide. Techno grinned and followed him into the yard.

A steady drizzle of rain fell from the muted clouds overhead, darkening Tommy’s shoulders and slicking his fringe against his forehead. The teen didn’t seem to mind, marching resolutely towards the tree line, his boots steady against the uneven terrain. Technoblade took a detour to grab a bow and quiver from the cellar before trodding off after the soaked blonde, the wool of his turtleneck weighed down by the storm. Silvery sage shoots and young grass bobbed against the gentle pressure of the raindrops near his boots, cleansed of dust and brilliantly green. Puddles spread over the thawed earth, reflecting the gently roiling clouds overhead. The remnants of slick winter snowbanks were reduced to slush by the warm rain, then melted into nothing at all. As Technoblade approached the treeline, the strong smell of sap and fresh moss greeted him.

“T-took you long enough.” Tommy barked, squaring his rain-soaked shoulders, peering at Techno through the drizzle. The piglin hybrid could tell that Tommy was trying very hard to go back to normal, and he obliged with a snort of genuine amusement. The teen’s weak grin grew more natural at the sound, and he reached for the bow and quiver enthusiastically. Techno handed it over without complaint.

Without his cumbersome bandages, Tommy moved with supernatural grace. His slender fingers plucked the feathered nock of an arrow from his quiver, drawing it over one shoulder with the fluidity of water. They were a dozen metres from the target, the small red dot barely visible through the drizzle, but Technoblade wasn’t going to challenge the teen’s confidence. Nocking the arrow against the string, Tommy exhaled softly, drawing his arm back and aiming steadily forwards. When he released, water droplets scattered off the reverberating string, and the arrow sang through the storm and found its mark with a resounding thud. The boar raised his eyebrows as he jogged towards their target, thoroughly impressed. His amazement only grew when he found the shot in the centre of the mark, right next to the fletchings of the buried, unobtainable arrow from yesterday. 

“Oi, ‘ow’d I do?” Tommy called, his nervous rasp nearly lost under the patter of raindrops against pine needles.

“Bullseye.” Techno returned, marching back towards the teen with a proud grin on his face and the arrow in his hand. Tommy let out a whoop of excitement, jumping about in the puddles. “You’re a natural at this.”

“Of course I am! I’m fan-fantastic.” The blonde barked back, pushing his sopping fringe off his forehead, slicking it against the top of his head. His grey eyes danced with delight, and he quickly set another arrow against the string and aimed another shot. This shot was rushed, and whistled to one side of the trunk, nicking a groove in the bark as it whipped past.

“Patience, Tommy.”

“Y-yeah. I’m workin’ on it.”

They remained in the warm spring rain for another hour before Phil joined them. The older blonde had his green-and-white bucket hat jammed over his head, water dripping off the wide brim. Phil’s iconic black-and-white cloak rippled about his shins, rain sliding off the fabric like water off a duck’s back. When Tommy - who’d been having decent success with his aim - noticed Phil’s arrival, he shot an arrow wildly off course, blubbering out a few incomprehensible curses as it went. The teen’s shoulders had hunched forwards, the quiver nearly toppling off his suddenly sloped spine, and he clutched at the bow with both hands nervously. Phil looked equally as nervous; he was twisting the edge of his cloak in his hands, casting an imploring look at Technoblade through puffy, reddened eyes.

“I’ll go fetch the arrow.” he gruffed, taking the hint and trotting into the spruce trees to search. Techno busied himself by rooting through the blanket of old needles, their rich minty scent wafting pleasantly in the drizzle. Every once and a while he’d peer between the trunks, watching Tommy and Phil through the rain. Technoblade had no idea what they were talking about; the two blondes' discussion was inaudible over the thrum of the storm, and their gestures ranged from heated and wild to pleading and gentle. Eventually, Tommy lurched forwards, and Phil caught him in a tight hug, swaddling him within his billowing black cloak. Techno took that as his cue to return.

“I don’t want you to forgive me, but I’ll be better, Tomms. I promise.” Phil hummed, his choked voice drifting through the rain. Techno leaned against the broad spruce that acted as their target, arms crossed across his chest, waiting patiently.

“I-I believe you, Philza.” The teen rasped, barely audible from where he was tucked beneath thick fabric, his face buried under Phil’s scruffy chin. The old nickname signalled that he meant it. 

When Tommy pulled away from the hug, everyone wordlessly decided it was time to pack it in. Techno gathered up Tommy’s discarded weapon from its place in the emerald grass, and Phil reluctantly retreated towards the shelter of the cabin. Tommy stayed where he’d broken the hug, watching his father-figure’s retreating back through reddened eyes, rain and tears trailing down his scarred cheeks. Technoblade paused next to the motionless teen, observing him with quiet concern. The teen flicked his colourless gaze upwards, sending Techno a vague, exhausted smile. Shifting the bow and quiver to one large hand, Techno slung his free arm around Tommy’s shoulders, pulling him into his side and ruffling his sopping hair. Tommy snorted softly and shook water from his mussed locks before leaning his head on the pigman’s shoulder. Technoblade nodded reassuringly, and the pair marched through the rain, heading for home.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Techno confronts Tommy in the stable. The teen is curled up with Woman Henry, and looks very vulnerable. Tommy doesn't want to talk about what happened, and Techno tries to apologize for his and Phil's mistreatment of Tommy. But Tommy counters that he "got what he deserved," which devastates Techno. Technoblade argues against it, and when he calls Wilbur an idiot, Tommy adamantly defends him. The boar claims that his reaction proves his point, and tells Tommy that he's a hero, Tommy finally gives in, and the pair go out to train.
> 
> While training in the rain, Phil comes over. Tommy and Phil talk over their differences while Techno searches for a lost arrow, and they eventually come to an understanding. The group head back home.  
> \--------------------------------
> 
> And so marks the end of part one!! I'm putting out a mini chapter tomorrow as a segway into the new mini-arc, and as a fun bonus morsel for you wonderful strangers.
> 
> I think this is the perfect time to talk about how incredible you all are. I didn't expect this little drabble to get so much support, and I'm loving it, and loving how much you love it. Thank you all so, so much!! As always, your comments make my day, and I love responding to them all. Your support is priceless!
> 
> :'] <333


	19. Ghost Hunting Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ghostbur has been searching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No tw’s for this chapter!
> 
> This is a very short little interlude between the first and second parts. I mainly made it its own chapter so that arc two officially begins in chapter twenty, because I’m petty that way. So, uh, pog.

A delicate curtain of sun-gilded mist settled over the southern coast of the Antarctic continent, laying over a tree-guarded meadow and spilling into a tranquil, sandy inlet beyond. The early morning was broken by mellow birdsong, drifting from the leaf-laden boughs of sturdy oaks and weedy white aspens. Seabirds trumpeted overhead, specks of white against the pastel blue sky. An underlying bitterness haunted the air, tangy and unpleasant beneath the salt of the sea. At the edge of the forest, a figure emerged from around a gnarled old willow, ducking underneath its trailing, dew-laden branches. A few emerald leaves passed straight through his mustard-yellow jumper as he went. His sneakers fell silently on the waving grass, leaving no imprint in the rug of clover where he stepped and no rustle in the petals of wildflowers as he left. 

Ghostbur was convinced that the morning was chilly, but he couldn’t be certain. He wasn’t certain of much anymore, except the constant need to hold his blue. These days, the spirit could go through litres of the stuff, the colourless paste darkening swiftly and completely in his grey hands, leaving stains on his fingers and smudges on his face. If he didn’t hold his blue, dyed with the sorrow he couldn’t keep within, the crushing weight of loss would be too much to bear. Ghostbur held his dye close as he trod through the remains of Logstedshire, leaving the lush meadow behind, weaving clumsily between yawning craters and mounds of rubble. Smoke no longer billowed from the great pits scattered across the coast, but the air was acrid and foul, especially over the broad, jagged hole where a fort once stood. The spirit rummaged frantically in his pockets as he passed the horrid pit, fumbling for colourless dye, his chocolate eyes darting and whispered breaths ragged. He hated that pit especially, filled with oil-slicked muck and rotting buildings and blood. It was a horrible, toothy thing, and it threatened him whenever he passed. The colourless paste in his pockets spilled from his trembling fingers the minute he touched it, bleeding navy against the scarred earth. Ghostbur  _ really _ didn’t want to be here anymore; he’d waited here for a week after Tommy’s funeral, choked by cloying smog and blinded by bitter fire, melting in the rain and going through so much blue it stained the earth for months. But his little brother’s ghost never showed up. 

Ghostbur had searched for Tommy endlessly over the past three months. He had scoured the entirety of the vast eastern wood, overturning rocks and peering into the canopy, worried that Tommy had made it to the S.M.P. but got lost on his way home. Based on the way the teen had been talking before he died, Ghostbur wasn’t sure if Alive-Tommy knew where home was anymore, so he doubted Ghost-Tommy would know where to go. When he hadn’t found the teen’s ghost within Dream’s lands, he broadened his search. He’d wandered over empty deserts and trod across dust-choked plains, searching far into the east beyond dark and roaring seas. He’d drifted west, across snow-stricken wastes and drying salt pans, through bogs that clung to shadows like the plague and caves deep beneath the mountains that would never see sunlight. Ghostbur’s phantom steps had carried him from the highest peaks of the north to the deepest ravines in the south, and yet he couldn’t find Tommy. He was certain he was around; he had to be. Tommy’s ghost was lost and confused, and he’d need a way to get home. But Ghostbur’s tireless, unrelenting search had left him empty handed and fuzzy-brained. He needed to go home too, or he’d become just as lost as Tommy’s ghost was. So with a heavy heart and muddled, heartbroken thoughts, Ghostbur had returned to the remains of Logstedshire, heading silently for the coast and the S.M.P. beyond. 

The spirit picked his way down the slope towards the inlet, black trousers passing through the knee-high grass without stirring it, ringing excess dye from his fingers as he went. Logsted’s bitter stench faded as he left it behind, drowned by the pleasant azure sea that stretched before him. Ghostbur hopped into the sand, float-walking towards a grey canoe pulled up onto the white shore. Water lapped at his sneakers, hissing and bubbling when it made contact, but the spirit was too weary to care. He grappled with the boat for a few minutes, hauling it down to the water's edge, painting brilliantly blue handprints on the stone-hued wood. Sighing dejectedly, Ghostbur clambered into the canoe, his knees up to his ears in the shallow space. With hazy, home-sick thoughts, the spirit pushed off from Logstedshire’s shore, drifting out into the sea. It was time to go home.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ghostbur passes through Logstedshire on his way to the S.M.P. He's been searching for Tommy's ghost for the past three months, travelling far past the borders of known lands, but he came up empty handed. With a heavy heart and muddled thoughts, Ghostbur sails off to L'Manburg.  
> \---------------------------------
> 
> As I promised, a very small interlude chapter!! Ghostbur's whereabouts are finally revealed, and he returns to the playing-field in time for the second arc. Very pog!!
> 
> Y'know what else is "very pog?" YOU GUYS!! Your support from the last chapter was so, so heartwarming. I can't thank you enough for your kind words. We've also pushed past the 40k word mark, which is super wild. I didn't think this story would be that long, but I'm a sucker for that slow burn thang, so here we are. Everything is extremely groovy!
> 
> :D <3


	20. Turtlechamp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The turtles are coming out of hibernation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No tw’s for this chapter! Pog!!
> 
> Actual chill chapter for once! We’ve moved through some of the heavier stuff, and my character development quota has been filled. :]
> 
> NOTE: If I hear one word about the third word in this chapter being “fortnight” I will lose my shit.

In the fortnight following Tommy’s impromptu bandage removal, the air in the cabin became immeasurably lighter. Afternoons were spent in the warming fields and forests, and evenings were filled with hot chocolate and board games. Winter was relinquishing what remained of its hold over the tundra, and bright spring growth was everywhere. Phil had already taught Tommy how to sow seeds in the thawing garden, and despite the hard labour, the teen had been incredibly eager to help. Phil had been teaching Tommy a number of things, in a nearly overbearing effort to uphold his promise; an oath from Phil Watson was worth more than a palace of pure netherite, and Techno knew the old mentor would go above and beyond to mend ties with Tommy. So far, it seemed to be going incredibly well. The blondes were currently lounging against the young grass covering Techno’s front yard, pouring over dusty old enchantment textbooks in the midafternoon sun. Tommy’s back was against Woman Henry’s flank, his gangly legs splayed before him, the denim of his jeans grass-stained from morning training. Phil was laying against the lawn, wearing an olive-green turtleneck to stave off the early spring chill.

“You hearin’ this, Woman Henry?” Tommy croaked, shifting the dogeared tome to one side. To the bemusement of Technoblade, who was sitting cross-legged in the grass nearby, the old heffer actually raised her head and scrutinized the text. “They’re puttin’ mending on ev-everything these days.” Woman Henry didn’t respond, laying her head back in the grass to continue dozing.

“...I still don’t understand how you talk to her.” Techno gruffed, turning his attention back to the whetstone in his hand, running it across the edge of a glinting netherite blade.

“I ha-ave a way with women, Big T.” Tommy quipped, a mischievous grin dancing across his marred face.

Techno snorted in response.

“I-in all honesty,” Tommy hummed thoughtfully, his smoke-damaged voice shifting minutely. Techno and Phil perked up at the tone, turning their gazes towards him. “Cows a-are drawn to me. ‘Ave been for as long as I can remember, really. I just ge-get them.” Both older men nodded, and turned their attention away. After their long overdue talk, Tommy had been steadily revealing parts of himself to his family. Usually, it was impromptu and spur-of-the-moment, something blurted into the comfortable silence of the living room or announced out-of-the-blue during archery practice. This tidbit about Tommy’s puzzling connection with cattle was just one of the odd pieces of information he’d decided to share. So far, Techno and Phil had only discovered surface-level secrets; Tommy admitted to a fear of fire and heights, exposed his unfamiliarity with metalwork and smithing, and explained that his refusal to brew potions stemmed from L’Manburg’s War for Independence. Each morsel of information was listened to without further question; progress was progress, and Techno and Phil weren’t going to push Tommy to reveal more than he was willing to give. They were more than happy that the teen trusted them in the first place.

Techno was drawn from his reminiscence when Phil hopped to his feet, wandering over towards Tommy, who had asked him about a concept in the ancient textbook he was reading. Philza crouched down next to the teen, placing one hand on Tommy’s shoulder to steady himself and peering into the book curiously. Chat yammered excitedly in Techno’s head, their own curiosity swirling amongst Techno’s contented interest. Phil in mentor-mode was always exciting to see.

“Spells can be imbued in everything, if you have the time and energy to do it.” Phil hummed, flipping a page and gesturing to an elaborate diagram, scribbled in age-paled ink. It depicted an ornately woven cloak, imbued with runes that would allow the wearer to walk through fire unscathed. Tommy’s jaw had dropped in gleeful shock, hunching forwards to examine the illustration.

“That’s badass…” the teen hummed, combing reddened fingers through his fringe, moving the light curls out of his eyes. Phil grinned, settling down cross-legged next to him and flipping through a few pages. Tommy leaned forwards eagerly, enraptured by the old tome. Chat cooed softly at that.

“You can enchant boots to make you feather-light,” Phil elaborated, gesturing at another series of faded drawings. “-or gauntlets that allow you to lift heavy objects. Prop and protection are common, but you can put all kinds of magic in clothing and armour.”

Tommy laughed with incredulous delight, examining the diagrams more closely. “You’re kidding! You’re p-pullin’ my leg!”

“We can make you something if you want, Mate. I’d just need some stuff from my old place.” Phil hummed, a proud smile lightening his soft face. Tommy was grinning from ear to ear, gazing at the pages in awe, grey eyes dancing. Phil ruffled Tommy’s hair, and the teen squawked in indignation, batting his hand away.

“Don’t mess with me ‘air!” The teen’s grumble was half hearted, and he tugged his unruly curls back into place and retied them. “Fuckin’ old people...” his grumbled insults died away, softened by a warm gleam in his silver eyes. Techno’s smile widened, and with encouragement from Chat he rose to his feet, laying his whetstone and sword aside.

“Who’re you calling old?” he gruffed, sidling towards the seated blondes with an air of mock anger. Tommy’s half-hearted scowl lifted, and he grinned at the hybrid wickedly.

“You’re fuckin’ ancient, Big T. I could fu-fuck you up with me eyes closed.” 

“You wanna bet?” the boar snorted, rolling up his sleeves. Chat hooted and cheered as Tommy hopped up, dancing from foot to foot dramatically, a wily grace in his playful movements. Phil sighed heavily, and Woman Henry lifted her head to squint at them curiously. With a battle-cry that echoed against the western cliffs, Tommy threw himself at an amused Technoblade, dodging under his swooping arm and crawling up onto his back before the boar could grab him. The pigman, laughing openly, spun around in circles, trying to grab Tommy’s waving ankles. The kid had latched onto his shoulders like a young opossum, and was shrieking with delight and swearing richly. Phil laughed loudly when the pair overbalanced and fell onto the grass, wrestling on the thawing earth and young spring growth. Woman Henry sighed softly and returned to her nap.

-*-

The next morning, Tommy was shifting uncomfortably on the back of Carl’s saddle, groaning and swearing every few seconds. He’d been griping from his place behind Techno since they left the cabin. 

“Is it any farther? I’m dyin’ o-over ‘ere, Philza.  _ Dying _ !”

“You’re fine, Tomms.” Phil called over one shoulder, smiling softly. The group were making their way west, following the northern creek upwards into the depths of the Antarctic Tundra. Ragged grey cliffs rose on their left, trailing out of the sparsely-grassed slope they trod upon and marching southwards as far as the eye could see. On their right, the creek gurgled merrily, carving a broad, winding path towards the distant sea. The cabin was long behind them, a speck in the broad, flat valley they called home. They’d risen with the sun, setting off along the edge of the spruce woods, making their way towards the small lake where Techno’s turtles lived. They’d be waking from hibernation, and the boar wanted to check in on them.

“But are we  _ there yet?” _ Tommy groaned, leaning dangerously far back in the saddle and waving his boots in the air, using Techno’s navy cloak as an anchor.

“Actually, yes.” Techno hummed, urging Carl forwards so that he could stride abreast with Phil just as they crested the ridge. The thawing tundra evened out before them, an expanse of young grass and shrubbery broken only by smooth, low outcroppings of lichen-stained andesite. The western horizon was guarded by a strip of formidable, white-tipped peaks, a distant line of indigo teeth against the pastel sky. The sun gleamed white-gold on a lake a couple kilometres ahead, long and vaguely egg shaped. Techno’s heart lifted at the sight, and he gestured at the water enthusiastically. Tommy stopped whining to look, leaning up against the boar to peer over his shoulder.

“I call it ‘Turtlechamp.’ It’s pretty self explanatory, really.” Technoblade gruffed, urging Carl into a steady canter. Phil matched his pace on an eager Doc; the dark dapple grey was incredibly fiery, and the warming weather finally allowed him to stretch his legs. Tommy’s complaints about the increased speed were drowned out by Chat’s crows of delight.  _ Turtle time, Technopog, Turtlechamp, Technoturtle, Pog, E, Turtlepog. _

Techno reigned Carl in a few metres from the shore, where the creek branched away from the lake and tumbled away behind them. The chestnut stallion snorted softly as Tommy scrambled from his haunches, complaints morphing into delight as he began to explore the shore. Turtlechamp lake was as still as a mirror, reflecting the distant mountains and cloudless sky in its crystal surface. The piglin hybrid swung from the saddle, patting Carl’s sturdy neck fondly before marching for the rocky bank, allowing the chestnut stallion to graze. Phil followed after him.

“The water might be too cold for ‘em still, Mate.” The old blonde hummed, cloak swirling about his ankles as he hurried to catch up to Techno’s long strides. “And the permafrost might be keepin ‘em asleep.”

“They’ll be out.” The piglin hybrid assured him, crouching down on a muddy lip in the bank, overhung with grass and sloping into the pebbled shore. He peered along the surface of the water, scrutinizing the surface of partially submerged logs that he had dragged up from the forest. 

While searching for sunning turtles, he was distracted by Tommy. The blonde was further along the bank, tugging his boots off on a pebbled shoal a quarter of the way around the lake. Techno’s brows shot towards his pink hairline as Tommy rolled up his khaki trousers, the netherite inlay in his walnut leg glinting in the midmorning sun. Before either of the older men could stop him, the teen had unstrapped his prosthetic and hopped into the water, eyes fixed on something just below the surface. His vigorous swears drifted across the lake.

“Fu-fuckin’  _ fuck _ it’s cold!” Tommy shrieked, grey gaze remaining on the water.

“Get out of the water, then.” Techno called, rising from the grass with a bemused smile.

“No! Ack,  _ bollocks… _ ” The teen wobbled for a moment to regain balance before plunging his arms into the water, soaking the sleeve of his maroon jumper as he rummaged around. Hauling something out of the water, Tommy lurched pell-mell out of the lake, holding what appeared to be a large dark rock at arms-length. Techno, curious, jogged around the shore to reach him.

Tommy was sitting cross-legged - or as cross-legged as one could be without half a leg - in the grass a few metres from the bank, grinning at the rock in his lap. Techno nearly tripped over his own feet when he saw that the rock was grinning back, before realizing that it wasn’t a rock at all. The teen was currently babbling at a very large turtle, its ribbed shell darkened with age and long neck stretched towards Tommy’s face.

“L-Lookit’ this guy, Tech!” Tommy chirped, gazing at the boar while jabbing a finger at the reptile. The turtle was currently trying to climb up its blonde captor’s chest, pressing its pale, beaky mouth against his scarred chin curiously. Tommy laughed with delight, turning his attention back towards the turtle, oblivious to the puzzled expression on Techno’s face.

“What’s he got… oh.” Phil froze beside Technoblade, ice blue eyes round with surprise.

“Yeah.” The pigman confirmed, placing his palm against his forehead. Chat was giving him a headache, screeching with delight about Tommy’s new friend. The teen was currently lying on his back, leg-and-a-half stretched out, allowing the turtle to crawl closer to his face. It was taking a liking to him, which was incredibly unusual, but the boar could only be so surprised by Tommy’s antics at this point.

“...Guess the turtles are up.” Phil hummed, clapping a reassuring hand on Techno’s shoulder before wandering back towards the horses. Techno remained where he was, watching Tommy move the turtle back onto his stomach, only for it to climb back towards his face enthusiastically. With a heavy sigh, the boar wandered after Phil. It was too early in the morning for this.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phil and Tommy go over old enchantment tomes in the front yard. Relations have been improving at the cabin, and a pleasant air has settled over the farm. Tommy has been steadily revealing tidbits about himself, to the joy of Phil and Techno. 
> 
> The rag-tag family head northwest to Techno's turtle pond, simply dubbed "Turtlechamp." Tommy complains the whole way there, to everyone's amusement. At the pond, Tommy finds a turtle first, and quickly befriends it. Techno thinks it's too early in the morning for all of this.
> 
> \---------------------------
> 
> Chapters might be a little further apart, until my workload eases!! I hope you guys like this chapter; it's a bit of a lull, I know, but we've got lots of stuff coming up to look forward to. Very pog!!


	21. A Daytrip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil takes a trip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MINOR TW!!////Mentions of death, minor panic attack.
> 
> Mm, scrumptious worldbuilding. Time to take another jaunt over to the S.M.P and see what’s up. 
> 
> Also; did anybody else’s shit get absolutely rocked by the most recent streams?? Like, it was so brutal it physically hurt. I can promise that Tommy will have a better fate in this story. :’]

Everyone was shouting. Technoblade, aggressively donning yellow rubber gloves and his sunflower apron, was trying to get Tommy to bring the dishes from lunch to the sink. Tommy, his mismatched feet up on the table, clothes caked with dirt and dry grass in his ponytail, was swearing at him enthusiastically and calling him a dirty cheat. The teen had lost horribly at last night’s board game and still wasn’t letting it go. Phil was shoving the bare necessities for travel into his satchel, dashing throughout the house, shouting in an attempt to be heard above the din and trying to figure out if anybody had seen his compass. Neither of his boys acknowledged the question; Tommy was laughing shrilly because Techno had just called him a raccoon, and the boar was enthusiastically supporting his claim, gesturing wildly and flinging soap bubbles about the kitchen. Apparently, raccoons are shit at Snakes and Ladders. Phil shouted for help a few more times before giving up, pressing his fingers against his brow and hanging his head in defeat. He eventually found the compass - hiding in a cupboard beneath an upturned, rose-patterned bowl - without their help.

“...I’ll be in the yard.” Phil sighed, drifting out the door. He heard the scrape of a chair and the clang of a pot in the sink, and knew that the bickering pair were following him outside.

Phil stopped in the front yard, mostly-empty satchel slung over his shoulder, gazing at the boys following him with exasperated content. The guilt coating their shared past still ceaselessly gnawed at his gut, and no matter how badly he wanted to fix things with Tommy, he knew they’d always have a strained relationship. There was too much bad history to simply forgive and forget, and Phil knew that. He knew that his mistakes would be impossible to atone for. But as he watched the teen and pigman tumble out the door - grumbling, shouting, and laughing - he had hope. He  _ would _ make the future better. Techno and Tommy were still bickering good-naturedly about the previous evening’s game of Snakes and Ladders as they approached; the teen was convinced that Techno had cheated, and the boar argued that Tommy was just impossibly bad at rolling dice, because he was part vermin. They had started wrestling with each other when Phil pointedly cleared his throat, smiling softly at the guilty looks on their faces.

“You could, y’know, say goodbye instead of fighting.” he teased, grinning.

“H-he started it.” Tommy quipped unhelpfully, laughing when Techno elbowed him in the side. Phil’s smile softened further, and he shook his head. The teen’s grin only widened in response.

“I’ll be off, then. You know how to get in touch if you need me.” Phil chirped, squaring his shoulders resolutely.

Phil’s black-and-white cloak responded to his will immediately. The edges of its hem fluttered away from his ankles, steadily stretching, lengthening upwards and away from his shoulders like great arms. Feathers of fabric rustled from the shimmering material as it moved, peeling away from the smooth surface, glimmering and iridescent in the afternoon sun. The white diamonds adorning its hem stretched out longer, morphing into sharply-edged fingers which reached down to brush the grass. Flexing the massive cloth wings experimentally, Phil shifted his satchel off his shoulder, holding it in both hands.

“Fu-ucking metal…” Tommy murmured, silver eyes wide as he stared at what was once only a cloak. Techno snorted in amusement at that, and Phil beamed.

“I’ll be back in a few days.” the old mentor promised. The magpie-like wings whipped upwards then, blocking out the sun and causing Tommy’s colourless eyes to bulge comically. As they pushed towards the earth, the enchanted cloak cracked like a whip, and suddenly Phil was rocketing away from the ground, the wind tugging at his bucket hat as the cabin shrunk beneath him. Pivoting in mid air, he allowed himself to freefall for a moment before another stroke of his great fabric wings stopped his descent, whisking him towards the east. Tommy’s delighted laughter faded away behind him, and the cabin was lost behind the canopy of spruces below. 

Phil’s worries about Tommy and Techno were washed away by the crisp spring air, blustering through his long golden locks and tugging at his robes, a temporary bliss of freedom. Phil wheeled across the tundra in a swift glide, his satchel bobbing in the wind, following the winding dark band of the northern creek. The grass and trees whipped away beneath his widened shadow, rich and fair from the spring rains, a blur of vibrant colour visible only for a moment as he rocketed mere metres from their reach. His great black wings suddenly caught the wind, lifting him skywards to coast around the peak of a lonely eastern mountain. Floating weightlessly on the breeze, Phil skimmed the clinging ivory clouds with the ends of his feathers, smiling softly as he went. As the old mentor rounded the edge of the snow-covered mountain, speeding up his progress with a reaching beat of his cloak, the sea came into view.

The ocean was vast and dark, partially shrouded in sun-gilded fog and low-hanging clouds. The creek Phil was following emptied into a broad bay, brimming with shattered grey isles, each battered relentlessly by white spray. They were barren and cold, water pooling over their ragged grey edges, ruddy algae and umber lichen their only inhabitants. Folding his broad wings inwards and pitching into a steep dive, Phil spiralled towards the bay, widening his wings with a snap to catch himself just above the waves. The water roared in his ears, deafening as it crashed against the shadowed towers. Skimming rapidly over the roiling water and slick boulders, he ducked and swerved amongst towering stacks and high arches, making for the broad, flat island in the centre of the bay. Flaring his great wings against the wind, Phil settled on the dark rock, hard heels clicking smartly against the stone. The black fabric pooled at his feet, settling like spilt ink over the stone before drawing in on itself. The cloth feathers knit themselves back together, shrinking inwards until Phil’s iconic cloak was once more in place, brushing at his shins while he walked towards the centre of the island. An eerie silence lay over the wide, craggy isle, dampening the crashing waves and sputtering foam. The only sound came from the bitter wind wailing softly from the sea, whistling beneath the boulder skyscrapers and tugging at Phil’s long blonde locks. At the centre of the isle stood a foreboding, tar-black arch. Tendrils of obsidian leached from the structure, fracturing the stone under Phil’s boots like a deeply rooted mould. The poisonous purple curtain of light held within the ancient pillars rippled in the crying wind, bubbling and beckoning, whispering softly beneath the cry of the wind. Squaring his cloak-clad shoulders and sucking in a short breath, Phil stepped through the arch and into the Nether.

-*-

Tubbo had never been more unhappy to see Phil Watson in his entire life. Sure, he liked the guy, but he had a habit of showing up at very inconvenient times. This was certainly not the place for him to be, given the current political climate.

The brunette had been heading into L’Manburg, making for Niki’s bakery, bundled in a chunky-knit chocolate turtleneck and pale jeans. It had been peaceful as he rode unhurriedly through the S.M.P; the bright spring sun was warm against his back, and birdsong drifted from distant, budding forests. Clementine’s feathered hooves fell soft on the wood-and-stone path, overgrown and claimed by creeping thyme and twining spring grasses, and the breeze smelt like heather and the sea. The peace was broken only by the murmur of the Nether portal. The grandiose arch sucked the air from the emerald moor, quieting the melodies of seabirds and robins, dark and foreboding against the pleasant afternoon sky. Normally, Tubbo would’ve hurried past the whispering archway, spurring Clementine into an uneasy canter until the tar-black stone disappeared behind a ridge; it gave him the heebie-jeebies. Today, however, Tubbo reigned in his pinto next to the portal, peering up the ridge at a cloaked figure stepping from the curtain of toxic light within its pitch walls. The brunette blinked and squinted for a moment until recognition widened his eyes and dropped his jaw; only one person had that striped bucket hat, and the dark, iridescent cloak swirling about his shoulders was one-of-a-kind. Phil Watson had returned to the S.M.P, and everything was about to go wrong.

Anxiety clawed at Tubbo’s throat, and he sucked in a worried breath, murmuring softly as he debated what to do. Clementine shifted and snorted under him, unimpressed by his jerking hands and tensing muscles, but Tubbo didn’t pay her any mind. He was focused on the sturdy figure before him, too busy brushing soot from his boots and the hem of his cloak to notice the stressed brunette. Tubbo knew President Quackity’s game. The Butcher Army - a rag-tag militant group of grief-hardened villagers and revenge-craving politicians - would descend upon Philza the minute he stepped foot in L’Manburg’s borders, apprehending him for treason and interrogating him for information. It wasn’t a secret that the old blonde had been staying with his former apprentice, a wanted criminal and Public Enemy Number One, and that made Philza  _ Public Enemy Number Two _ . While Tubbo was lost in his thoughts, Phil wandered over to his side.

“You okay, Tubbs?” he asked, peering up at the brunette, who flinched in surprise. Tubbo gaped like a fish out of water, his thoughts rioting against each other.

“I- yeah. No. Uh, perfect. Splendid. Um…” The teen pushed a hand through his downy chocolate curls, brow furrowed low. “Uh, wh-when… Why’d you come back?”

“Just to get some things, visit some folks. Y’know how it is, Mate.” Phil returned, completely oblivious to Tubbo’s internal conflict; the teen was currently smacking his forehead and cursing his horrible speech.

“Uhm, maybe that’s not such a good idea.” The brunette finally sighed, slumping forwards in the saddle and dropping his hands, resigning himself to his fate as he spoke. He had promised President Quackity help, expecting community work and building projects, but got the Butcher Army instead. Something about it didn’t sit right with him; he’d retired to escape from the violence that haunted L’Manburg, to make amends for all he’d done, and yet war had crept up on him again. Maybe if he got Phil somewhere safe…

“What do you mean, Mate?” Phil chirped, adjusting his satchel, curious but unworried. Tubbo shook himself from his thoughts once more.

“Well, President Quackity kinda wants to kill Technoblade, and you’ve been staying with him, so…”

“ _ President _ Quackity?” Phil asked, bristling at the title. Ah, right, he didn’t know.

“I resigned.” Tubbo explained hastily, shifting in Clementine's saddle. “Right after, uhm.” He swallowed hard, fighting down the sudden clenching of his heart at the memory. The feeling never went away. “The morning after Tommy’s funeral.” Phil’s eyebrows shot up at the news, scruffy jaw slackening slightly.

“...Really?” the old blonde quipped, staring at Tubbo as though he were a new person. His piercing, icey eyes were softened by sympathy and something unplaceable.

“Yeah. I wanted to do something right, for once.” Tubbo hummed, screwing up his face into a painful smile, though it slipped off his face quickly. Tommy’s exile had been in the best interest of the nation; the armies of the S.M.P would’ve laid waste to L’Manburg citizens, and Tubbo had only wanted peace. Where Tommy had lashed out against the world to cope with their past, creating havoc for some sense of normalcy, Tubbo had only wanted a break. A chance to finally escape from the torture of war. But despite his pure intentions, guilt had eaten away at the teen’s soul the minute he’d banished L’Manburg’s last founding father. His best friend. His brother. And after he found the tower, and  _ the blood… _

Phil was speaking, but it sounded far away and muddled, as though he was underwater. The old mentor placed one comforting hand on Tubbo’s knee, and the brunette vaguely registered that his breathing was shallow and erratic, lips pressed into a thin white line, hands shaking so violently it was clattering the bit of Clementine’s bridle.

“W-why not come to my new house? We can, uhm, have a cup of tea, and plan your visit to L’Manburg?” Tubbo choked out, dropping his pony’s reins and wringing his hands, voice thick and crackly around a shuddering breath. “Please? I… I really don’t want you to get caught, Big Man.”

“Sounds good, Tubbs.” Phil hummed soothingly, patting the stone-wash denim covering Tubbo’s knee before turning and wandering towards the coast. After only a moment's respite, the teen clambered from Clementine’s saddle and hurried after Phil’s retreating form. He came into stride next to the old blonde with the pinto trailing behind them, slowing his breathing and allowing Phil’s gentle, melodic ramblings to anchor him. Perhaps he could get something right, this time.

Both of them were oblivious to the gangly figure leaning against the portal’s dark arch, muted green cloak melding seamlessly with the grass, watching them leave through painted black eyes.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tommy and Techno bicker good-naturedly while Phil prepares to leave for a quick trip to L'Manburg. He flies east using his enchanted cloak, to a Nether portal upon an isle in the bay.
> 
> Tubbo, on his way to Niki's bakery, stops at the S.M.P. Nether portal as Phil exits. This isn't a safe place for the old mentor so, despite his promises to President Quackity, Tubbo alerts Phil to the dangers awaiting him in L'Manburg. After some reflection and a bit of a panic attack, Tubbo offers Phil a place in his home so they can plan a proper, safe visit to L'Manburg. Dream watches them depart together.  
> \------------------------
> 
> Hello everybody!! I hope you're doing well. I've got a lot of tests this week, but I should be able to get back into writing starting this weekend. That'd be pretty pogchamp, I think. As always, I love hearing from you, and take care of yourselves!! :] <33


	22. Apples

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy absolutely hates Techno’s training regiment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MINOR TW!!//// Description of phantom pains, old injuries, near-death experiences.
> 
> Another sorta filler chapter, but I’ve got some character backstory for you! We’re working towards the big angst and suspense, so bear with me. I’m very busy at the moment!

“Watch your feet.” Techno gruffed, biting into an apple. Tommy, puffing and exhausted, managed to straighten his stance for only a moment before giving up, slumping forwards and placing his hands on his knees. His simple spruce bow dropped to the ground with a soft thump, and the half-full quiver slung over his back teetered dangerously. The boar raised one eyebrow at his behaviour, pushing himself off of the tree he was leaning on and taking another bite out of the round red fruit.

“Fu-fuck this, big man.” Tommy groaned, coughing into his elbow, panting as he struggled to catch his breath. He hated Techno’s stupid new training regiment.  _ Fuck this shit. _

“We’re only gettin’ started, Tommy. Buck up.” Techno hummed, finishing off his apple and lobbing the core into the woods. The blonde groaned in response, caving further forwards and spluttering weak profanities. Since Phil’s departure after lunch, the piglin hybrid had run Tommy through his favourite new drill; fire arrow after arrow, focusing on form and trying to achieve ungodly levels of perfection with every shot. They stood in the yard, over twenty metres away from the new targets Techno had fashioned, working endlessly under the midday sun, firing hundreds of arrows each session. It was hours of the same god-damn thing; back straight, shoulders down, arms level, hold for a moment, release. The teen’s arms trembled weakly with exhaustion, and all of his muscles felt like jelly.

“The fuck y-you mean we’re only gettin’ started? We’ve be-een out here for ho-ho-ours.” Tommy spluttered, choking on the last word, coughing at the ground and wiping a thick layer of sweat from his brow. His hair clung to his passing knuckles, damp and lank and horribly gross. At least the temperature was finally cooling off; the sun had just disappeared behind the lip of grey cliffs to the west, casting lanky shadows across the darkening tundra, painting the sky in golds and roses.

Techno shrugged and took another apple from his pocket. It was his twelfth that afternoon. Tommy groaned and struggled for his bow, snatching it from the ground with limp fingers, wobbling dangerously on his feet. Holy shit, he was exhausted. One more minute of this, and he was going to throttle the pig-headed hybrid, morality be damned. Just before he was about to straighten, resigning himself to death-by-exercise, movement caught his ever-darting silver eyes. Without any warning, Techno drew his arm back and flung his apple directly at Tommy’s face. The teen reacted on pure, exhaustion-hazed instinct. His scarred hand snapped to his quiver, drawing an arrow and nocking it in an instant, nerves sizzling with adrenaline and firing lightning under his skin. Pale eyes zeroed in on the ruby fruit hurtling towards his nose. Tommy drew back his elbow, exhaling sharply. With a flick of his buzzing fingers the arrow was singing through the evening air, glinting against the pastel sky. The arrow met its mark with a heavy thunk, sinking up to its fletchings into the apple, and both projectiles fell to the earth where they met. 

Tommy blinked stupidly at the apple, stuck all the way through by his arrow, glinting innocently in the downtrodden grass several metres away. He had drawn himself into the perfect posture that Technoblade had drilled into him all week; his feet were squared, shoulders rolled back and chest up, chin and arms level with the earth. Tommy blinked again, then stared at Techno, bewildered. The boar was openly grinning at him now, drawing a thirteenth apple from his pocket and taking a bite so large, he ate part of the core.  _ Fuck this. _

“...You suck, y’know that?” Tommy groaned, the adrenaline leaking from his limbs, though a pleasant hum of pride replaced it. A dead bullseye within a small, swiftly moving object was no simple feat, and Tommy’d done it in the blink of an eye. He hadn’t felt like that since… 

“I know.” Techno hummed, devouring the entirety of his apple, core and all, before flicking the woody stem into the trees. The blonde snorted, sagging towards the cabin, nearly tripping over his mismatched feet as he went. 

“This wa-as the absolute worst. You coulda’ killed me.” Tommy whined, though he was grinning wildly, and eyes gleaming and shoulders relaxed. His ghosts were dead silent. Technoblade, snorting with amusement, nearly toppled Tommy when he patted him firmly on the back. The teen just laughed.

-*-

Tommy stared at the gloomy rafters supporting the living room roof, dazedly watching the firelight warp the shadows and play along the edges of the wood. Moonlight danced on the heavy bolts, creeping in through the curtains to gild what it could reach with silver, and in his exhausted haze Tommy was enthralled by it. He was sprawled out on the couch, hair untied and damp from a bath, limbs trailing about haphazardly and prosthetic laying on the rug beneath his trailing fingers. He’d been this exhausted before, many times. Far too many times to count. But the dizzying cotton stuffed in his head was overshadowed by a fuzzy feeling of accomplishment, and Technoblade’s obvious pride in him was indescribably incredible. The pigman himself was sitting nearby, lounging contentedly in his favourite pine-green armchair, socked feet crossed at the ankles and a thick book in his hand. Tommy wasn’t entirely sure whether now was a good time to share something more about his life, but he felt safe and proud, and the murmurs of doubt that normally clogged his mind were silent. Sometimes, he needed to take a risk.

“I can’t believe I used to be so shit wh-with bows.” Tommy hummed. He flopped his head to one side, cheek pressed against the arm of the couch, watching Techno place a strip of ribbon into his book before meeting his gaze. The boar blinked at him expectantly, sensing that this was important, so the teen continued.

“I definitely would’ve won the du-duel for L’Manburg if I’d been this good.”

Techno hummed in acknowledgement, but stayed silent, his full attention now on the teen sprawled fluidly over his couch. Tommy chewed on his scarred lip for a moment before continuing, flopping his head back upwards to stare blankly at the ceiling. A whisper of doubt passed through his mind, but he kicked it down. The sputtering fireplace made his hands itch.

“I was… rea-really young though. Y’know? Stupid. I wa-wanted to impress and I didn’t un-understand.”

The boar hummed again. Tommy swallowed.

“I was bare-barely fourteen. Y’know, sometimes when I think back on, uhm, on it, I… Sometimes I don’t know why I decided to fight in that stuh-stupid fucking war in the first place.”

Tommy’s head snapped around wildly when a sharp bank hit his mangled ears, all of his jelly-like muscles taughtening instantly, reddened hands gripping at the couch in a vice. His heartbeat thrummed wildly in his ears, clawing its way up his throat, pressing against his bugged eyes until the pressure nearly blinded him.  ~~_Danger, danger, run Stupid, explosions in the-_ ~~

“Sorry.” Techno gruffed, bending to pick up his heavy novel, ducking his head apologetically. The blonde stared at him, bemusement replacing his fear, and he relaxed minutely. The pigman must’ve dropped it while he had been talking.  _ Nice going. You’ve said something wrong, Stupid. _

“N-naw, I was over, uhm, oversharing-”

“No.” Techno interrupted firmly. Tommy’s jaw snapped shut, and he peered at the boar curiously. The teen sagged back against the couch, focusing on unlocking his limbs one by one. “I always want to hear what you’ve got to say. It’s just…” Techno swallowed, and the blonde vaguely registered that he looked uncomfortable.  _ Sad,  _ even _. _ Oh.

“So you… fought most of the L’Manburg revolution when you were thirteen?”

“...Uhuh.”

Techno was silent for a moment. Tommy, fuelled by the anxiety prickling beneath his marred skin, began to babble.

“I couldn’t juh-just leave Wilbur alone, y’know? He was trying so hard, and he wanted to do s-something big and cool, and I-”

“Wilbur was stupid.”

“Don’t say that about ‘im.” Tommy grumbled, prickling immediately. The teen knew that Wilbur had been a wrongin’ a few too many times, but he couldn’t be mad.  _ Wouldn’t, _ really. The lanky brunette was horribly flawed, constantly striking upwards in an attempt to be recognized, but at least he’d  _ been there _ for Tommy. He’d always been ready to pick him up, dust him off, bandage the scrapes and quiet the nightmares when nobody else would. It was only at the end, when a stranger started wearing his face, that he failed Tommy. Techno didn’t know shit.

“You were thirteen, so Tubbo was, what, fourteen?” Techno clarified, voice hard to cover his obvious discomfort. The blonde shifted uncomfortably, turning his head back upwards again to stare at the rafters, fingers twisting at the hem of his pale blue t-shirt. 

“Tommy.” Techno gruffed, trying to prompt words from the tight-lipped teen. Tommy just fiddled with his fingers, sagging further into the couch, trying his best to be absorbed by the dark upholstery. Merging with the furniture seemed very appealing. “Tommy, it  _ wasn’t right. _ You nearly died  _ twice _ in that war.”

The teen blanched at that, the colour draining from his face. His scars looked stark and fresh against the suddenly sheet-white skin, violent webs of bruised brown and unnatural silver, casting deep shadows in the firelight. He didn’t like to think about how close he’d come to death. It made his head pound and fingers shake, and a poltergeist of gunpowder and acrid smoke hammered his nose. Phantom pains shot through his chest as he thought of the War; one pierced right next to his heart, red-hot through his ribs and left lung. The other lanced through the side of his gut.  _ It hurt. _

“T-tw-twice in a week, act-actually.” Tommy corrected unhelpfully, his voice weak and warbling, struggling to remain in the present. The log sputtered and cracked in the hearth, and he flinched. Tommy cleared his throat thickly, colourless stare fixed on the dancing shadows overhead, feeling Techno’s keen almond eyes on him. He didn’t turn. His own eyes felt uncomfortably hot and prickly, and the ghosting pain from his near-mortal wounds was tightening his lungs and slicing his nerves.  _ Look what you’ve done, Stupid. You were wrong to share. You’ve ruined it, Idiot. _

“...I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again.” Technoblade rose to his feet as he spoke, setting his book on a sidetable and looming over Tommy. The teen averted his gaze further, staring at the back of the couch, lip trembling. This was a horrible idea. He should’ve kept his mouth shut. “Wilbur was an idiot who made idiotic mistakes. You never should’ve been in that war, and Tubbo shouldn’t have either. I shouldn’t have…” Techno paused to drag his hands down his face. Tommy went very still.

“Shouldn’t ‘ave…?” the teen prompted, voice hoarse and scratchy, curiosity slicing through his uncertainty. His phantom pains were slowly easing, but his lungs still felt tight.  _ Don’t hope for too much. Isn’t this enough for you? Selfish. _

“I shouldn’t have hurt Tubbo. Or you. During all the stupid…” Techno trailed off, waving his hands in the air wildly, trying to convey something where his limited words failed him. Tommy understood.

“Thank you.” Tommy murmured simply, putting all the meaning he could into the two soft words. His nervous gaze flitted away from the edge of the couch to meet Technoblade’s. The warrior’s face was softened with guilt and sympathy, lips downturned around his small tusks and almond eyes harrowed. The boar nodded shortly, running a broad hand through his freshly-dyed locks awkwardly. Tommy twitched his mouth into a slight smile of reassurance, and the pigman visibly relaxed. Techno was trying his best.

Technoblade ruffled Tommy’s wild, untied mane affectionately and trailed back to his chair, snatching up his book and hastily burying his nose in it. The blonde didn’t take any offense to his swift withdrawal; this had clearly drained the pigman’s emotional battery. Sensing that nothing else had to be said that evening, Tommy slowly picked himself up from the couch, groaning and grumbling as his muscles protested the movement. He desperately wanted to give in and sleep in the living room, maybe slipping into a coma and never rising from the sofa again, but that would absolutely murder his back. Gripping his prosthetic in one hand and trailing the other along the wall, Tommy hopped down the hallway towards his room, turning down Techno’s gentle offer of assistance. A lightness had settled over his heart, lifting weight from his perpetually curved shoulders and relieving a tension in his jaw that he didn’t know he’d been carrying. As he flopped into bed, sinking into the mattress with a deep sigh, Tommy decided that some secrets were too heavy to bear alone.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tommy, who's been training since Phil left after lunch, is exhausted. For the past week, Techno's been forcing him to do rigorous training, spending hours at the new archery range in the yard, focusing on perfecting form and aim. Techno tells him they're just getting started, drawing a new apple from his pocket. Without warning, he throws the apple at Tommy's head. The teen reacts on instinct, shooting the apple out of the air perfectly. Overjoyed by the show of skill, the pair head inside.
> 
> Tommy, feeling safe and proud, decides to share more of his thoughts with Techno. He reveals that he was barely fourteen when he duelled for L'Manburg's independence, nearly dying twice within the span of a week. Techno berates Wilbur and apologizes for his own behaviour, vaguely referencing Pogtopia incidents. Tommy thanks him and retreats to his room, deciding that sharing some of his heavier secrets is rather cathartic.  
> \-------------------------
> 
> Hello, sweethearts!! I hope you're all doing fantastic today. I'm sorry that this is another sorta-filler chapter; I've been super busy lately. The big action is starting up very, very soon. I promise I have all sorts of funky plans!
> 
> :] <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for checking it out! Updates will depend on my schoolwork and overall inspiration levels. Give me honest criticisms, please! Stay hydrated :]


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